On Our Way (My Snail And I)

                    On our way, the wind is a gale ­–
                    The trees lay where they fell.
                    My tattered feet, they will not fail;
                    The snail grips to his shell.

                    We do not stop, we hold our pace,
                    Although we may be slow.
                    The light of patience burns my face
                    As tempest winds do blow.

                    As tempest winds do blow my hair,
                    And shimmer in the light.
                    There is no path on which to fair
                    The journey through the night.

                    Here we see the weeping willows
                    Who tell us where to go.
                    We frolic with the fickle breeze
                    And live where it does blow.

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