The moon is my guide my soul my shepherd.
The air was thin and cold, my heart was big and bold, when I packed my bags to leave my home.
I followed the spring, a brush and tumble with love, and wet with the taste, thought it was all and it was all enough.
Staking it all, I lost it all, and I took what I could to hit the road, dreaming about the warm lights and hearths of home. There the lights would glow, just like the moon I know, my guide my soul my shepherd.
Under the torrid sun, and endless din of work, I lost my youth but gained a place, for I shared bread with princes, merchants, and rogues.
My bags grew heavy as I grew old, my legs grew weak and slow. I paused a while, and it was quiet dark, and cold.
I emptied my bags by the light of the moon, my guide my soul my shepherd.
To whom do I owe these memories of laughter, love, and life? To whom do I owe the ones of shame, regret, and bile?
Do I need these things, these things that compose the measure of my being? These stories of evil and schemery, these stories of strength and hope?
I took them out and chose, and chose to leave some there, under the light of the moon, next to my glowing home, by the side of a snowy road.
I chose to explore, under the light of the moon, my guide my soul my shepherd.