In a world where mountains dance,
on sleepy streets in steps of chance,
I take a hand that's made of gold.
I walk the distance and thrive on cold.
Stumble in like drunken hope,
trip softly over my tangled rope.
Drive me fast to where we die,
in mobile dreams of summer's sky.
It's not the sunrise on the hill
that sparks my joy, or frees my will.
I don't spend lifetimes on my knees,
for prayer is dim in light's disease.
The self is marred by self untrue
and passes swiftly from brown to blue.
I serve to squander if I sweep
those distant days away too deep.
Grant that I may not judge my niegbor until I have walked a mile in his moccasians
Native American prayer