You and I are old soldiers, Aren’t we? Our souls in scars, our hands all chapped and sore. But aware of each other’s stolid presence, In night’s delirium and in day’s commotion: Peaceful at memory’s cross roads. Sometimes, like a windblown maple leaf in autumn. Sometimes, like light of stars on a snowy mountain crest. And we will on this path still continue, With ice-axe clinging to the very verge.