Now he’s gone somewhere, down the golden road.
I cannot see beyond the nearest bend.
I think that he’s still up there, is my friend,
But what I see’s constrained by what is showed.
This place is beautiful and seems benign,
But seasons change and weather does, as well:
We feel magnanimous when all is fine,
But alter circumstance, and – who can tell.
I think my friend’s still out there, and I hope.
And yes, the golden road is – well, a trope:
That which we do not know, we do not know —
But where we’ve never seen, we yet