at the parting

these are the gates through which the rivers pass
all of our hopes are focused on one place
enough to know that we might have the grace
but yours the choice to be divine or crass
only one eye may see right through the glass
and one alone may the great light embrace
yours is the one last honest open face
and you must go through to the land of grass
each pilgrimage returns to one last fane
an empty temple with an absent god
and what we find there is not set out clear
the measure of our journey is in pain
each step is taken with a single prod
and no one knows why any wants to dare