A WALKING SONG

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say

I saw their mother, living there as a stray.
I saw the mother, gave birth one day. Two calico twins, a yellow tabby and a white and gray.
I saw their mother, left there to stay, undisturbed, but no door was opened in the cold of the night, under the rain that pours from the sky, through the heat of the sun. The only thing that she has, is a thin, decaying rag, and unused table at the corner of the yard.

I saw that it was a big house, like those belongs to the old men of old days, but like many tribes of the land, the parents pour down everything and give anything, and their children never came to be as great as them, so when they went away, the house was split in two with a wall build in the middle through it all.

One become a hair salon, tiny and small, I wonder how people would lay about and have their hair washed. It’s tightly packed with everything else stacked to the chest, I wonder how the dresser will go about while styling her client. Its paint is new, but it’s cheap and it’s slapped onto an old, weary walls, with all its specks and crackles; dirt and dust that show through. If I go there to have my hair do, would I go out with a bun, or fleas from the loo?

The other half become, a house. At least no one sells there, and the doors are always closed. As of late, in the morning, then unused tables will be dragged to the middle of its tiny porch, tied up with raffia, and there will hang various instant coffee and powders of many taste, to be poured into a glass of cold water, and quench some thirst. But one still have to wait there for a long time because the door is always closed, and if one knocks for a service they have to wait a long time still, because the door remains closed, for a long, long time.

But if I go there, it won’t be for my hair; it won’t be for my thirst. If I go there if will be for the mother cat who was there, but no longer around.

And one after another her tiny kittens wither. Four left, and then three.

I cannot come every day, I only have so much left to share; and since there are less and less people care, more often now, I cannot come because I don’t have anything left to share.

But if I go there, I will stay for as long as I can, standing as far away as I can, because they are all terrified to all that wanders. They know after a few times, that I have food, that I won’t deal them any harm, but they won’t approach what little I give, until I am out of my reach.

Last night, after a few days, there were only two. I had tried to reach for the grey and white, and another one with yellow patches, who seemed ill, but they ran away.

I have nothing left to share. I have given mine to the two ancient tom who stayed under a small parkway downhill, while I fill myself in with raw rolled oat and a warm milk. But there is this one can of tuna, only one left, that I want to give the white knight, and the grandpa who lives in the building material shop the other side.

So I gave one spoon for the young princely white, and one spoon to the old dirty white. Then I walked down hill, and find them where their mother used to be, on a thin, decaying rag, near the unused table, huddled together, watching the door that’s always closed.

It will be a long time before that door will open for man, perhaps never for the likes of them.

I blow a little whistle, and they came to me as I pour down half can of what I have left, pursuing it with eager feet. One of them went straight away and gobble, the other one looked at me, in fear and terror.

“What do you fear, lady?” I asked.
“A cage,” she hissed. “To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.”

I stepped back and her too start to gobble.

I took one picture, just so they can refill their lives, and as I walked away with an empty can, I wonder.

So wither then? I cannot say

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

A day will come at last when there will no longer be the door that opened, or a can of tuna that left.

A day will come at last when the last hope had given, and there will no longer a whistle.

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.

But so comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.

I opened the gate to my house, and stand there under the stairway, looking to my own closed door, that has always been opened.

I took my breath, and climb.

Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Then world behind and home ahead,
We’ll wander back and home to bed.
Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
All shall fade! All shall fade!

~ Josie

paypal.me/whiskerssyndicate

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say ~ Bilbo Baggins, The Lord Of The Rings, Fellowship of The Rings (J.R.R Tolkien), Chapter 1

“What do you fear, lady?” [Aragorn] asked.
“A cage,” [Éowyn] said. “To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.” ~ The Lord of The Rings – Return of The King (J.R.R. Tolkien)

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. ~ Thorin, The Hobbit (J.R.R. Tolkien) Chapter XVIII: The Return Journey.

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun. ~ Bilbo Baggins, The Lord Of The Rings, Return of The King (J.R.R. Tolkien) Book VI, Chapter 6

So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings. ~ Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit (J.R.R. Tolkien) Chapter 18: The Home

Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Then world behind and home ahead,
We’ll wander back and home to bed.
Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
All shall fade! All shall fade! ~ Pippin. An adaptation from “A Walking Song” based on poem written by J.R.R. Tolkien in The Lord Of The Rings, The Return Of The King.

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