Years of Merry Seasons

Point down the road,
to some desired destination.
See the way to it, go there.
See what the door looks like.
Look in the windows.
Three and sixty they number,
with a woman's face in every one.

Point through the looking-glass,
and define the other side.
Numberless worlds lie
across the glass.
But they contain within
them, an infinite number of
smaller verses, each, self-containing.

Point up to the sky,
to some desired star.
Count the light-years to it,
shoot for it.
Look through the telescope,
and into your ingredients.
There, you find your way.

Point down into the valley,
and find the source of knowledge.
So, it seems, music is Man's
greatest triumph.
But, space travel does
well to rival it.
Both make us human.

Point across the ocean,
to some distant harbor.
Forty and 400 leagues
is the route, and your days,
are numbered and few.
So, the days dwindle,
and you come to pass.

Point to the northern forest,
for there, is the last paradise.
Where Man does not interfere,
and he does not control, or abuse.
Property is a greedy man's idea.
The forest aforementioned is alone
in security, beauty, and most of all, silence.

Point down the dark hole,
and find no solid bottom.
Miles infinite, the thing goes.
Never go in a tunnel,
a narrower vision you receive.
If you fall, defy all rules and gravities.
There, you shall find your inscrutable conscience.