I come to a fork here, trivially,
Bewildered by my mind’s comprehension
Of the things it was made to choose between,
Like a machine forged from glass; the intention
Being that, shattered, the cracks branch away.
The fork, like a set of fingers off’ring,
Each giving me a taste of where it goes,
Does little in aiding my suffering,
‘Cause my destination I’ve yet to know.
Birds can fly and return quicker than I,
But my decision cannot be unchanged;
The tale is longer than stories of mine,
But, like a book, it can’t be the same.
The sun begins to set along the west,
So I step down and forget all the rest.