And so it happens that we are all walkers:
Runners, joggers, skippers;
Trail blazers, some of us.
And that is the answer of the ages.
Of the “who am I” and “what am I doing here.”
We are machete wielders, creating
The path unique to ourselves,
To our laughter and our tears.
We are charterers of the unknown
Jungles that our lives are, similar
To many, yet different in every sense.
We do not travel the road less travelled:
We create the way.
We build the bridge, draw the maps,
Write the memoirs that the
Next generation will forget or
Misunderstand, because I am not
You, nor you I, and my yellow
Brick road is blondish, buttery white,
Whilst yours is coppery gold.
And so, like the Spanish poet
Said, dear walker, there is no road.
The road is rendered by your feet when
You start your walk.
And that is life. And who you are.
A walker of dreams on a space called land.