The old cold wind howls,

you will never make your destination,

and moans,

the path you seek is gone.

The young man,

all of twenty two,

toeless shoes from miles of solitude,

Recants and shelves his ambition

father I have given all and yet so small

Cynical secular wisdom laughs

at the slow-herd.

your a fool to waste precious time.

in the land of dimes

A charge of dalliance they declare

and stare

from their vain high places

with grotesque dour faces