Yearning to lead, some follow
Myriad-marched lines of ley.
Restless esteem, objective the ware,
Their own to stride in disparate air,
Naught to halt, for thought unclaimed.
On such ways of faithless hope
Are beheld yet scattered still,
Ebbing spirits, deliverance bound,
Their exploits ravaged, of zest renounced
Yet simple for one to tell -
Often more than not is there
A purpose in meager things.
Never may plead, yet always anew;
Existing to give and so they do,
In truth known, of truth unseen.
Be it not the shifting trail,
Neither jay, in winds up high.
A passerby\'s glee bereft, nor so,
Fate withheld: its refusal to go -
But their nature, we define.