the Burning Trail
In the burning valley, under burning skies,
There lay a burning trail, burning old and frail.
The whistling wind, humid and hot,
Makes the twisting path even harder to climb.
Yet, I still press on.
Past the burning faces and the burning yurts,
The wilderness consumes you.
At the end of the burning trail, old and frail,
I see the moon caught in the grasp of a burning hand.
And, suddenly, everything seems worthwhile.