Lying wounded in the corridors of time,
We lost the Great Wheel turning beside,
Thinking of what will become,
Of those who trust this tomorrow. 

Alone in the forest the deer flits about,
Though gently shaking, the leaves are still
Warmed buy the thought of the end of the journey,
This little path seems to grow. 

O Seat of Might and Power,
There are many rocks in this stream,
And I flow around in eddies,
And things are not what they seem.