Pilgrims Without Progress

Pilgrims without progress were a people by name, They travelled a road that was always the same. The way that was mapped for the route they took, Was inscribed by pen in a leather bound book. The road was rocky and scattered with thorn, And the people were hot and feeling forlorn. Their feet were sore and their faces were red, And the sun shone without mercy down on their head. The distance was painted with bright coloured flowers, That soothed the eye and filled the long hours; And a hawk that soared high in a bright blue sky, Was looking for food to feed her babies nearby. They kept on walking throughout the dark night, With the moon on high shining her light. A breeze that comforts touched their weary face, Urging them onward to finish the race. Though travels of all made them weary and sore, A need to get there was not helping anymore; For the way that they went led all of them round, Back to the place where the beginning was found.