When Strife has worked me through,
Her hands full of profit coat my wounds with wages,
The day by then is nearly done;
Not even the hermit keeps vigil at that hour,
Only the lost and unwilling keep their eyes open,
Looking towards the morning’s promised resurrection.
Once compensated for my daily work,
I gladly take my leave,
The highway stretches before me with indifference,
No beginning or end for millions and millions of miles—
The thought of a comfy rest lightens my heavy heart.
My hands loose on the steering wheel,
I join the great community of night time commuters,
An elect spared from the odyssey of early-evening traffic.
Soon I come upon the home,
The false glow of electric candles beckon me inside, Gladly I accept, and step from my car into the calm outside. But there, there I saw my constant point,
Raised among its siblings, though sharing nothing in common, Great Polaris called me in silence from the earth below: Who could help but answer the best they could?
My limitation soon became apparent,
No radiant palaces among the cosmos could I travel to, Being the featherless biped of dust and atoms,
Yet Polaris continue calling me,
A burning bush in my nighttime Exodus.