It’s four in the morning,
The pilgrims are snoring,
Their chorus nocturnal they hymn.
Their muscles are aching,
Their rest they are taking,
Stretched out on the floor of the gym.
Dear fellow wayfarers,
Mud brothers, and sharers
Of blisters and bruises and things,
The day’s slowly dawning,
Insomniacs yawning
Herald the joy that it brings.
Today we are parting,
Sweet sorrow is starting,
Our paths stretch ahead undefined.
Let’s pray for each other,
Both sister and brother,
That each his true heaven may find!
Michael. ¨ 4 a.m. 14.4.1975 ¨ Upper Beeding