The Paths Of Time Poem by John Yaws

Trails across the desert-
Now faint and hard to see...
But something there is calling
And beckoning to me.

A voice within is bidding-
Take up this lonely track
And see where it is leading
You won't be coming back.

You follow through the mountains
Where days stretched into weeks
Across the mighty rivers
Through quicksand in the creeks.

You find iron rims a'rusting
Half buried in the sand-
And know they are a monument
To some forgotten man.

And scattered in the sage brush
Are bleached and drying bones
Some gambler, here, played out his hand
And fought and died alone.

And there a small stone marker
Inscribed to "Sarah Jane"
Some daughter, or some mother
At this spot to rest was lain.

As you sit beside your campfire
And gaze into the night-
You may hear some woman crying
Or a small child's sobs of fright.

You may here the ghostly calling
Of some sturdy pioneer
Whose family came up missing
Somewhere not far from here.

I slowly take my hat off
And stare back down the trail
And pause awhile to honor
Those who did, and did not fail.

For, my friend, we are their debtors
As they died to pave the way
For the freedom that's our portion
In our way of life today.