I seem to have been sent forth, 
without future provision, 
maps left behind unfolded, 
all useless now anyway.

Mine is an itinerary unknown, 
hence my first faltering glance, 
then my continuing hesitation -
as I slow walk solitary, 

counting myself unknown -
I espy a now familiar cadence
a reflection of a hidden echo, 
an almost silent resonance.

Though I initially try,
To refuse to hear -
I'd would send away 
this gift if I could, 

if I step down,
I wait long enough, 
If I practice stillness, 
I become quiet myself...

Now are spoken those words,
Those you thought could not say, 
Because no one would dare listen.
And though heard by me , even if -
afterwards, you'll say them never, 
you'll remember the wanderer that showed you the way.