I raise my eyes to the mountains,
shadowed against the sun,
and I hear your voice in the distance:
“Come, pilgrim. Climb to me.”
I’ve no great urge to be roaming;
too much to be done at home.
But you call – incessant, insistent.
So, grumbling, I rise and go,
The sun’s a blaze on my shoulders;
pathes slip out from under my feet.
But a cloud like a hand seems to shadow me;
failing, I do not fall.
You’ve been with my journey leaving;
be with me coming home.
Tr by Wm J O’Malley