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To the Morrow


May nobody forbid, as the morrow lies,
Is the path along which the crow flies.
Eager as we are, we follow its trail,
And course the dangers it might entail.

Where the morrow lies, there is a birch,
A bird flaunting its priceless perch.
For the feathered dear isn't feather-brained,
It's found the morrow, who are we to disdain?

The copious green of the morrow says,
The true and convinced can only stay.
Green might wilt and other colours may reign,
But the morrow wants decisiveness, not crane.

The braided paths of the morrow twist
And brood and sweat, lament and pine,
The clearing that they culminate at persists
In declaring the ways, true and divine.

Who can stop us treading down,
The morrow once twilight creams into dawn?
The morrow comes, the morrow goes,
We can reach it heavy-toed.

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