The thousandth of a million souls,
At destination, lost and blithe,
I give my request to the elder,
that he may grant that more arrive.
The ropes I've climbed to reach this height,
ripped away with care,
I take my chisel, bloodied, tarnished,
and strike with trained despair.
I gaze down to the meadows lost,
and they gaze back at me,
I only wish that what once was,
could as easily be seen.
I ask perhaps, for all I've done
that my dust be returned,
I do not know if that may be
to inspire or deter