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.