On a Friday night late in November
the Road had come to a stop, falling to pieces. Brought to a stand.
And everything upon it followed and overspread one another.
That Friday night, an unwholesome sea shut out the light
from the eyes of the mind; a beautiful nature to wither away
by the setting sun.
Shadows upon every human creature.
Every beating heart is a secret to the heart nearest it.
Like an evil spirit, a cold mist made its way through.
The Road had made it all.
That golden thread which bound a Life sat still,
to the echoes resounding times when there was love remaining.
Footsteps broke like waves,
greater echoes coming.
It was the belief we had before us;
it was the hope that comparison was settled for ever.
Now, the journey waiting for completion was not to avoid that most to be dreaded.
The leaves of this book look into momentary lights of spring
playing on its surface;
a sight so touching that humanity came forward to raise from the ground
the curtained light, the perpetuation of that which I shall carry in mine
to my life’s end.
I see a beautiful city rising from the abyss.
I see a child who bears my name, faithful and at peace.
I see their hearts weeping and I know I was in the souls who faded away.
All these things came to pass along the Roads that lay before them.