what is alive still in us,
proof against the age and rage
and slowly eroding hope,
what still rises within fresh
as a fish to a flung fly
when we greet half-willing day,
what embers of force still live,
what passions could we persuade
to stay, greening our browned hearts,
what baggage do we carry
that is of use, not burden
but blessing, a pyx of gold,
what do we have left to hold,
whom does the grail of our hearts
still serve, and have we yet nerve
enough to reach out for it
with joined hands, peregrine souls,
no map, just a homecoming?
