I press on.
Not knowing the mountains that lie ahead,
Yet the shadows loom up, flickering, foreshadowing
the climb I must take to scale them.
I look down at my hands, my feet,
Blistered, battered, worn,
Chafing and weathered, I do not know how many
beatings they can yet withstand, but they must.
I must press on.
I press on.
I look back at the road behind me,
reminiscent of the valleys, the streams, the sun-shiney glade-
all the things that I held dear all,
collided, cascaded into memory, soon to be forgotten
and missed. Like an ancient lullaby they sing to me-
"Go back! Back to where the air is fair and clean
back to where you know, where you've already been."
But I must press on.
I press on.
A deep breath. I gulp the cold night air,
It's chill stinging my face. I sigh out all the
memories, all the longings, the ache in my chest for what I will never see again.
I am loathe to leave this place.
But I think I can.
I must.
Press on.
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