There is a road where we all grow from boys to soldiers
Do we see the road as a whole?
Or do we examine it brick by brick?
If I could carry a conversation with the builder
I would ask him how he paved this road
And how he feels about those who follow it
I would tell him that I have listened to this road
It doesn't speak much
But when it does the sun rises, the flowers bloom
And the trees give birth to the sounds of autumn
I have seen the drivers of this road
Their radios reassuring them that everyone becomes everyone else
Their names beginning with the letters "A" and "I"
The builder let's me know
That he has also seen this sun set
These flowers die as the air gives birth to the touch of winter
And he and I are left to speak in foreign tongues
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