Walking I was, some day,
Along a track; a tracery it was
of those who passed in the past;
‘Hurried only they,’ I mused; left poor trail,
Mingled which easily in the earth.
The beaten dust beneath looked
easy for a venture fresh,
Swayed I with pomp and pride,
for easy was the poor path to tread;
And admiring all, went I with a happy song.
The soil below seemed
only poorly tottered in the past,
As no footprint was distinct,
I will leave a permanent one,
Thought I, proud of youth and time.
Praised I everything,
Fresh and exuberant all,
Trying I was, to put
steps distinct, firm most,
So that mingle they not in dust soon.
Alas! Pinched the sun bitterly,
Shrewd wind howled; Hated I all,
Lost rhythm and balance, and tottered,
Vanished my footprints right there,
Sadly sighed I for their short span.
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