My walking stick’s got broken,
my roaming days are done,
I live among my fellow men,
among you not alone.
To heights bright but deserted
I once was led, by whom?
But then I glimpsed earth’s beauty.
Turned back and made for home.
In fields the rye’s maturing,
And harvesting’s in store.
Like other folk I’ll harvest too
and plough the fields once more.
Worn is my hand and broken
it is my walking stick.
I have made peace with him who
way back once gave me it.
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