I was an old child
Not knowing from whence I came
or where I was going.

I left home at fourteen,
and pursued a calling,
then another,
and wandered for forty years.
Whatever I found,
was good for the journey.
Wherever I stopped, my body was at home,
but my soul still wandered.

I grew a beard
and lost some hair;
but my soul
still wandered.

When I made another home I planted my wandering stick
It rooted, and its branches bore fruit
and my soul still heard the ancient call.

Now I am old,
formed like the world
recalling from whence I came
and won’t be deterred
from where I’m going.