It’s
four in the morning,
The
pilgrims are snoring,
Their
chorus nocturnal they hymn.
Their
muscles are aching,
Their
rest they are taking,
Stretched
out on the floor of the gym.
Dear
fellow wayfarers,
Mud
brothers, and sharers
Of
blisters and bruises and things,
The day’s
slowly dawning,
Insomniacs
yawning
Herald
the joy that it brings.
Today we
are parting,
Sweet
sorrow is starting,
Our
paths stretch ahead undefined.
Let’s
pray for each other,
Both
sister and brother,
That
each his true heaven may find!
Michael.
¨ 4 a.m. 14.4.1975
¨ Upper Beeding