LAST JOURNEY

He has gone
the silent road. He goes
before me. He carries his torch
clear already of the traitorous air.

He goes murmuring the verse he could not say
the last evening.
His smile died and in his eyes
the deep dread trembled of what now he knows.

I call him, follow him. He turns no more
his face to me to say: "father,
here is my youth, I give it up to you,
here is my heart, here is my blood."

When my pursuing steps, by absence quickened,
come up with him,
and we are joined before the burning glass
of time-delivered images,
I shall see his face and see his brow
sink on my breast.

There he and I shall know who sets a day
for the departing, and the journey's why.