Old Pilgrim

At a certain age, he could no longer sleep,
so he took to walking, in the depth of night, 
alone on the road. One morning, he decided 
to continue walking—to not turn home. 
He figured to walk until his old shoes wore through;

until his old head became so light that it floated 
from his body. So he went—day broke to night, 
and night to day, small roads branched large, 
and small again. His pilgrim feet carried him
steadily over swift rivers, past rutted fields 
and bone-white chapels. He had no hope, or sadness, 

only perhaps faint ecstasy at being ceaselessly in motion. 
He walked through spells of rain and fits of heat, 
and clouds of dust and exhaust, and nights darker 
than a well-bottom, with sudden scratchings and whoopings 
from the roadside. Soon, he was no longer on the road at all—

the world had silenced and there was no night or day, 
only the brushing of his feet in static waves of gray.

MB 2006

At a certain age, he could no longer sleep,
so he took to walking, in the depth of night