An ancient man that meanders through the mist,knowing which way to go in the darkness of the night,like a mountain spring that streams on to the sea.
This is the dawn
this is the beginning
this is the blindness of eyes yet to open,which open yet upon a feast.
The ancient man,who goes by many names takes it all in his constant gait,doesn't wait for any one or anything and listen to the birds trumpet and sing to him on his arrival.
This is survival
this is the bread that feeds.
The Ancient man needs no signs to show the way,he is the day,he is the lay of the land,he is the one that holds my hand as I stumble and grumble awake.

The light when night goes shows the way,the night goes and day is here to play.
The ancient man with steady gait will wait until the evening comes and shuns all efforts to make him stay
and ancient is the man and day
and anciently I watch him play in the early light when night has eaten,leaves the table,bowed,unbeaten
what a life we live.