The oak leaves now cover browning grass,
brown upon brown mixed with green,
but the verdure too will soon pass,
and the oak leaves crumble, and not be seen.
And the path I now walk will fade away,
the paving devoured by rain and wind,
and my companions will soon be yesterdays
as I walk without kin and without friend.
And my skin will be weathered in the storm,
and my eyes dimmed by wear of time;
my bones to dry dust will be reformed
and blown on the breeze to better clime.
The oak leaves that curl upon the ground
are the dust of the paths on which we tread;
and our mission in life cannot be found
except by walking the road laid by the dead.
Nor can seeking hearts find lasting peace
as they rumble like drums or motor cars,
but only when quietly they cease,
to pave future paths beneath the stars.