Up the dusty dirt road,
the tramp trudged
on and on and on.
Pains in his legs,
a broken oaken oar
to steady his limp.
It had been life times
since he took the Journey
down this road,
his stride, spry,
his pace, quick,
no haunted pauses,
an ocean of challenges
illuminating his face.
First came the thrill
of small victories.
Then came the horror
of the great white defeat.
Beaten by his losses,
all he had was going back.
So, on he stumbled
dirty, broken,
the foundling praying now
that there, beyond the
bend in the path,
still waited the fading memory.
Just before his ebbing strength,
hollowing hope, finally drowned,
he heard, faintly,
the opening door,
the running feet,
felt the embrace,
the tears on his face,
heard his name,
first, a question,
“Ishmael?”
Then, unbelieving,
“Ishmael!”
Then, whispered,
“Ishmael.”