To you with both paths yet unwalked,
I write this ode, a numbered lie
Sat, alone, a glass grasped drop
Of ink, fallen, a wishful sigh,
As the old birds of sky did freely gawk.
In night you reached,
In night you called,
Did anyone see?
Break down your wall?
You see no light,
Stars swallowed mud,
By the same inked spite
From your veins that floods.
Before you rests
A dappled fork
That truly tests
Your resolved walk
By final choice.
I, not on, beside
Call in hoarse voice:
To you, with both paths yet unwalked,
Though horrors still within our hold
Will not disperse, I ever await
Whatever’s next, refrain untold
I’ll be here, if need again to talk.