A figure tall and grey
waltzes through the night.
The way is cold and dreary,
this one meets no light.
The trees stand firm around him
to fix his line of sight.
The road must lead to somewhere
and the man will find it right.

The path is long and gloomy
but never one to fear.
Many have walked upon it
yet seldom shed a tear.
The darkness hides no demons
and the air is thin and clear.
The man will never tire,
nor turn to check his rear.

The man knows where he comes from,
but not to where he goes;
and many trot behind him,
in neat and tidy rows.
Some of them companions,
others are his foes,
yet they keep on marching,
into that which no one knows.

None will stop to look around
or even begin to think
why they walk on soggy ground
nor why their journey's in my ink.