The path grows long behind.
The pace picks up. Shadows of younger years
fall upon the grassy places to the left
and to the right.
But I go straight on.

Above, and westward,
the golden light of the afternoon sun
breaks in with melancholy
and with the strain of some ancient tune gently
plucked from the strings of a violin.

Here, a creek bed gives up
the sounds of crystal
in the onward movement of water and stone.
I espy beneath its surface
the images of days now gone,
of recollections rolling onward, ever onward,
as the years tumble in and out of view.

What peace lies beneath the overhanging trees
of memory sweet, beside the stream of recollection?
What gentle rest is found at the place where water,
grass, sun, and memory all unite?

Delighted solace is found therein,
but in the end
I go on.

The sun travels onward, westward
while the creek runs onward, southward.
The wind stirs trees onward, northward.
But I go east.
East, across the distant lands of days unseen,
of years unlived.
East, across the far off hills
and vales of intersecting hopes and dreams,
where the constant melancholic strain of some ancient tune,
gently plucked from the strings of a violin,
sing of home.

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