“Onward, ho!” shout the trail masters
While the weak lag behind
The wolves will eat the stragglers, we’re told,
And those that ran ahead, we cannot find.
Some wander from the trail, on either side
Into oblivious dark and cold
The rest of us, rag-tag as we are, keep walking,
Staying safely in the mold.
But each of us will arrive somewhere, I’m sure;
The front runners get there first.
The stragglers, now eaten, will fertilize the forest
And the side-winders, upon new trails will burst.
Each life has its purpose, some strange and varied.
And upon each back, a different burden is carried.
Look not harshly upon another pilgrim, if you please,
Merely because he walks under a different set of trees.