Far to the east I see them in my mind
Coming every year to that one place.
They carry in their hands what they must find,
In their own faces bare what they shall face.
They move in silence, permanent and sure,
Like figurines of porcelain set with gold,
The colors of their garments bright and pure,
Their graceful features elegant and old.
They do not change; nor war nor peace define
Nor end the journey that each year the same
Renders them thus. They wait upon a sign
That promises no future but their name.