There is a sign stood still at ending roads.
Its face of steel proclaims the white word ‘stop’,
And I ignore it, walking my own way.
Yet as I pass I look up at that face
That yearns for peace among this flaming world
All shrieks and screams, and time all hurried past.
I walk by it. It fades into the past,
Into my memory and thought of Time’s worm roads.
Like warning signs—a finger to the world
Which spins too fast, too strong for it to stop.
And thus the debris left on each man’s face
Is dust of aeons past, and gone their way.
There is a sign that guards each ending way
Perhaps to stay the souls who hurry past.
And in so doing, they neglect to face
The truth that lead to further dangerous roads.
I am repulsed. I want, badly, to stop
So I can pass to my own dream world.
It is as if I live not in this world
But in a world that passed me on the way—
And I was drawn to it. It is thus I stop;
My present life is drawn from dreams long past.
Between these worlds I roam. And on these roads
I live a life much better than I’d face
If I had stayed rooted. Now on my face
Is shown the marks made by this weary world,
And I am old—I’ve travelled various roads
Of love, of hate, even Death’s licentious way.
There is a sign that speaks to travellers past,
Declaiming certainly, Oh stop, oh stop,
For where’st thou hurry to? I pray thee stop
And heed the marks on my unchanging face:
Your future loops onto your life lived past,
And histories repeat in this old world.
Yet I—I take no heed; I walk my way
And choose my path among the many roads.
At every crossroads each of us must stop
To find a way. And as we go on past,
We scar the face of this ungrudging world