Vagrant

Song no. 3 on "None and All"

For every step I took beyond your door,
for every breeze that stole from me my warmth,
for every aching, empty-bellied morning,
one and yet another doubt took its form:
when I am gone, how will you find me?
when I am gone, why would you try?
A fear soon blossomed out of the silence
that we would never meet again.

But still I left the world of men—
all well-intended laws and ends,
their goodly castles in the sand,
their higher powers and low demands—
where each for their own hour stands
just as long as they command
their own hearts, their own two hands,
while their own heads still heed their plans.

I remember when I came to the edge of the outskirts
whereover encroaches all manners of beast,
whereat reason is wielded by the worst of its converts
like a knife in the hand of a pitiless thief.
Before the yawning wild at the end of the earth
I came upon a child by animals nursed;
when I told him to tell you to follow me further,
he scowled in disgust like I’d spit on his church.

And this may be what I deserve
for offering nothing that could serve
to keep my kin and kind assured—
what right mind would trust my word?
when all along the road you’ll pass
their flags all flying at full mast
that swear they’re honest, clear as glass,
that theirs is honour hard and fast.

When passed them came
this slouching vagrant
stumbling eastward alone—
beyond the reach of reason,
beyond the known—
they should have driven him off,
shouted curses and thrown stones,
and if not still locked their doors
and shuttered all their windows,
for this is he that but erodes
as running water sculpts
the earth whereby it flows.

And where I go,
they ought to watch who follows,
who takes the path
from out the wood I’ve hollowed,
who leaves their home
and through darkness travels,
who on my word
willingly unravels.

So I’ll be he,
depraving all who hear him.
So who shall be
the first to gather near him?

He’s made a path,
but does its end he know?
He’s questioned asked,
but what of answers shown?

I cannot see where my own feet
touch to the ground, but on they go,
fleet as hunting hounds.