The Path

There is a voice that’s not of crone
Nor crow’s nor rooster’s, yet recites
An exegesis days and nights.
It speaks to you, to you alone,
It stains your every dawn, it soaks
Your every cloud, it is your friend
At Christmas, Easter, at each bend
It croaks and rasps or rasps and croaks:
‘I give you happiness, this path
Was made for you, your friends are these,
This road is love, you’ll grow and laugh!’
They don’t know why your trudging leaves,
Why your foot breaks their epitaph.
They’ll never know. Don’t tell them. Please.