And still, we are here,
among mornings that arrive without hello,
the evenings that depart without goodby.
The faces moving,
each a universe no other shall ever know.
What am I among these?
What claim have I upon the earth
that it should make room for my steps?
Here beneath the open sky,
the grass bends, the wind divides,
the light falls upon me and goes on.
I am here,
and in being here, something else is absent.
And you are too,
among the hands that reach and release,
the voices rising in citysurf,
the names remembered and surrendered.
Where are the millions who stood upon this ground,
who loved beneath this sky,
who asked these questions of darkness?
The earth closes round their absence.
The wind stirs where they stood.
Yet every life disturbs the stillness.
Every hand alters what it touches.
Every voice joins the unfinished sentence.
Must I understand the journey to undertake it?
Must I know the destination to rejoice the road?
I am the question and the asking,
the traveler and the passing ground.
When the earth reclaims the space I borrowed,
when light falls where I once stood,
let it be that I was here,
that I moved among souls,
and loved this improbable existence,.
And still, we are here,
while the light finds us,
while the earth yields beneath our feet.
We are of the world passing through itself.
