there's no returning from the sacred ship
that bears each victim from the eastern shore
far out to westward where the oceans pour
past the world's edge and over freedom's lip
into the void we move at such a clip
that in a moment we're at the new door
and none is ready to assess the score
add up the bill and work out the full tip
enough of images it's time to scold
those who wait patiently with their critique
but cannot see the beauty in the pain
of torment in harsh sun and twisting cold
that tears the strongest heart and turns it weak
nor can it find true healing in the rain