Two thousand roads diverge into a moonlit hollow
Through moonless trees, circling back, encircling forth, coiling south, recoiling north.
I know somewhere they converge into some beckoning path, a path made to last
By which, hallowed with some destined urge, I am to follow.
Though wise enough to know my time for passage has come,
My shoes are new soles; my soles are not yet accustomed
To roads that bring sores of wear, that bear hard rubble
And bring increasing need of repair when stumbling over hard trouble.
Two thousand roads I do not know, with which I’m taken, are beckoning “follow”
Follow, though sight of my roadmaps may be ill lit, the maps with which to map an apt path
“Trust and trample the dust, forget concern”, despite the slithering mist in the night
In darkness of the moonlit hollow where roads turn, tongue-forked to whisper “follow”.
Though untried enough to be too trusting,
Of some paths, my shoes stray away from dusting, and do not follow
Into eerie shadows of the moonlit hollow
My soles find no delight in traveling dark roads by secret of the night.
Among two thousand roads, one thousand are serpentine.
In slithering mist, teem the hiding vipers in camouflage, hissing for sabotage
Meaning nothing but to lead prey astray into fangs and pangs of a wrong way
Where, for grave traveling mistakes, the venom surely makes youth pay.
Wait ‘till lighted day comes to map the way, the one path through the hollow.
Do not be too trusting when dark roads serpentine are beckoning “follow”.
