Well I do sit
In this foggy golden smire
Rich and green, searing dank swamp-heat out there
Bejeweled glistening and mad green wilds out there
Thick insubordinate heat simmered by unfurled tragic winds out there
An arid gushing hot monsoon like a magic jungle storm out there
Whisking the gray indifference of the solemn road.

It is on such a morning that three prepare to embark
Eastward.
Like worldly gypsies caravanning to mystic untold lands
Off to the far, far East.
Not defying but agreeing
Not protesting, but realizing what is
Not to sigh, but to laud
Not wasting, but making
Both living and dying

What can one ask of the world but
That it keep him Moving?

On, then, to the hallowed beckoning horizon.