Summit
West the towers of old time are looming
Under autumn-colored sky that’s glooming
Grey at afternoon.
Slow we trudge the rocky trail unwinding,
Patient pilgrims bound for somehow finding
Sainted glory soon.
Up the path we stumble, foot sore, sick and bleeding
Questing anywhere our mad crusade is leading,
Towards the pinnacle:
There amid the castle ruins we all stand
Scanning countryside and sky and far land
Till our souls are full.
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