The Inn

Walking I reach the shore and I stare at the evening sea,
with the waves moving to and fro, and I sense, once again,
that I've nowhere to go.

But still I must go.

There is no room at the inn.
So I will try another, and another, and another still.
Perhaps one night I will find a welcome sign
and a warm glow through a window.

Here I stand at the end of the year
with a story that nobody wants to hear.
It is that all things move:
the stars in the sky, the waves in the sea,
and the love for you that spins within me.

Nobody wants to hear how the going
makes life so dear:
from the womb to the grave,
through cheerful days,
and fretful days
and loss.

The road is long for me, for you, for us all.
We remember, we forget, we remember again,
but not all.
If you should think of me,
remember that I go on,
from doorstep to doorstep.
Until I should reach another sea
the going is all there is for me.