Roads can be chosen; each one leads one way,
Or through a branching, many, but discrete.
To follow one, I merely have to stay
Between its boundaries and in the street.
But here is a piazza, and the tiles
Pave every way around me; there is no
Defined direction, not for many miles,
And I cannot make out which way to go,
For if I wander any way, I can't
Be sure I will remain directional;
Or if I muddle aimlessly I shan't
Be positive of where my feet will fall.
To find a path would be a blessing; still
I cannot help but doubt I ever will.
No comments:
Post a Comment