What does the sunrise look like,
To someone headed west?
One who cannot turn round,
Nor take one glance behind.
First a pale glow,
Reflecting off the valleys low;
Followed by the sweet chirping
Of the birds in the pines.
Then the light increases
Until a color of unimaginable hue
Onto the soggy ground ahead.
How the weary traveler longs to go back –
To see the youthful hope
He used to revel in with childlike laughter;
Admiring the simple things.
But he is on his own road,
And every night sees his faint hope
In the sunset so red and glorious
Behind that dark foreboding mountain
Which is his final destination –
In this world.