Upon the road East of Gergesa,
  A red sunrise burning the morning
as poor peasant women pass me by.

Wars, rumors of wars, have followed at my back;
  my whole journey being ahead
or behind of some meaningless conflict.

You called me to this task
  the only one of them ascending;
my Holy of Holies, my religion
  you bade me go and wander,
returning only when I am worthy of you.

You chose well, I the lover of the
  long rides and the open sky,
perchance the only one of them
  you believed would ever return.