The ancient paths are long forgotten,
they are in need of revival from young souls.
In the dust there may be possibility.
Through the wind I hear a voice, "one must search to find."
Basho must have followed me here like Woody Guthrie followed Dylan,
passing a torch of beauty.
But I thank good Prometheus for sharing,
and revealing to us a fire so bright.
The road is visible now yet hazy like a dream
or a very old memory.
A sign reading, "Get Born" strikes me eye as I pass
"just one pilgrim to another," I hear through the trees.
As my pace picks up I can hear the screams
and see the others emerging from the Cave.
My road has diverged to yours
and the lights are visible to my sleepy eyes.
Sounds and smells of the carnival find me here
and carry far in this summer wind.
At last I arrive with the voices that have called me,
like a lynx searching for its kittens.
To an open field by the sea we arrive, you and I.
"It is finished," I hear in unison.
The fire is here also- with a note attached:
to: the mortals
from: the gods
I have taken the ancient paths.
