I won’t believe we’re free
until our sandaled-feet feel
the western hills unfolding.
Maybe the answer is “East”
– over the lonely Atlantic
and into the River Jordan.
North and south are calling,
and one day, we will find
the secret that Fate is holding.
Meet me on the mountains
and we will sing boldly to those above.
In this love, we are the creators
and the endless road awaits, unrolling
over the map’s fraying margin,
and into the long shadows
of the setting sun.
Drink from the ice, sip the meltwater,
go forever forward along the edges,
hand-in-hand, each safe from falling,
where we will do the thing not done.
If, along the way, we should meet
our makers, we can laugh and say,
“You are late. We were waiting.”
©️ Obol, 2020.
