We’re told this life is like a storied mountain.
We’ve seen mountains steeped in mist.
In mist things emerge and fade,
shift and metamorphose.
Each scene of our climb is yielded
only for a minute.
And even we ourselves are not what we were,
nor what we will be.
It’s easy to grieve what’s left behind,
easy to fear what comes ahead,
lonely in this pocket in the mist.
Still one thing stays fixed —
a light-speck burning at the peak,
burning beyond the mist,
burning at the trail’s end.
It tells us the trail has an end.
There, from the summit,
we look for a different view.
There, in the light,
the climber can see the trail below
as he never saw it then.
There all the scattered things are brought together.
The mists obscure the burning speck,
yet can’t quench it,
can’t bar us from desiring it.
Hope is the end of the trail,
the summit where air is clear.
Hope is the light burning above the mist.
See you there.