Wander, wander—
the ground is familiar, yet it has never been ours,
the sky is vast, yet it never opens,
the road is endless, yet it loops back,
folding over itself like a serpent swallowing its tail.
Forty years, forty more.
They said we were leaving,
but the footprints ahead
are only echoes of the ones behind.
They said we were promised,
but promises are only words,
and words are wind,
and wind does not stop for the faithless.
Forty years, forty more.
The dead lie behind us.
The dead lie before us.
The dead are with us, marching too,
invisible hands gripping our shoulders,
silent mouths whispering turn back,
but there is no back—
only forward into the past,
past into the forward.
Forty years, forty more.
We have counted the stars,
forgotten their names,
drunk the rain like it was new,
but we have tasted this before.
Milk, honey, manna, dust—
there is no difference.
There is only movement,
there is only waiting,
there is only the weight of what we could have been.
Forty years, forty more.
We walk in the footprints of the ones
who never reached the end.
We are the ones
who will never reach the end.
Forty years, forty more.
This is the curse.
This is the promise.
This is the path.
This is the exile.
This is the cycle.
This is the loop.
This is the loop.
This is the loop.
Wander, wander, wander.
