You've talked to the sun and moon, Those idols of stitched skin, bunch grass and twigs Stuck on their poles in the fall rain; You've prayed to Sweet Medicine; You've looked at the Hanging Road, its stars The stepstones and river bed you hope to cross; You've followed the cricket's horn To sidestep the Lake of Pain... And what does it come to, Pilgrim, This walking to and fro on the earth, knowing That nothing changes, or everything; And only, to tell it, these sad marks, Phrases half-parsed, ellipses and scratches across the dirt? It comes to a point. It comes and it goes.
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You've talked to the sun and moon,
Those idols of stitched skin, bunch grass and twigs
Stuck on their poles in the fall rain;
You've prayed to Sweet Medicine;
You've looked at the Hanging Road, its stars
The stepstones and river bed you hope to cross;
You've followed the cricket's horn
To sidestep the Lake of Pain...
And what does it come to, Pilgrim,
This walking to and fro on the earth, knowing
That nothing changes, or everything;
And only, to tell it, these sad marks,
Phrases half-parsed, ellipses and scratches across the dirt?
It comes to a point. It comes and it goes.
Charles Wright
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