Let go your two-fisted man-handle; the grasping.
Waken complacent stumps; set aside your famine.
Take straight view of what remains ahead:
When things work for one; they work for none.
Please take hold of my hand. Once young,
and now being old, I will tell you stories.
Choice tales make simple children wise;
and shape better princes from mere men.
We’ll gather threads, and twine them
Walk the road; lean in, take hold together.
Frequent falling, fear, and callous cold,
on shared path, fade forgotten behind us.
Taste one sweet handful of quietness;
Its richness dangles just within our reach
Rouse stumbling feet; waken fumbling fingers;
Let go all blustering, noisy, empty wind.