Monday, January 7, 2019


Feie in the morning,
his feet worn and dried,
calloused from the walking,
swollen from the pride.

Feie in the daytime,
his feet sore and raw,
resting on the roots
napping against yew.

Feie in the after,
his feet like hardened stone,
numb and bruised and shaking,
but does not walk alone.

Feie in the nighttime,
his feet standing strong,
his eyes lifting upward,
his heart filled with song.

Feie travels lightly,
his bag almost bare,
no rations packed inside,
food in the forest there,

just some old straw,
wrappings for his feet,
a blanket for the chill,
a rod for his fete.

Feie walks hither
not aimlessly to yon,
obeisance is owed
to whom he calls gods.

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