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


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