They approach and they retreat.
Here and in the distance.
On this hill, the enduring pattern
Can be witnessed…
The sights and sounds of those
Preceding and ensuing.
There is the lament that right here
I am unable to remain.
Duty taps gently,
I cannot ignore.
Yet fortune lies in the
Prospect of a return.
Those existing in eons before,
Could seldom gaze in awe.
Or sometimes even reach this site,
Where I now shiver and
Reflect in twilight.
Arising now, do I,
Taking one last look.
Aware that I am not
Departing for good.
Walking away, I am but
A small figure.
I reflect on rituals that
Both frighten and nurture.