On this roadwhere nobody else travelsautumn nightfall.

The journey itself is my home.

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

Had I crossed the passSupported by a stick,I would have spared myselfThe fall from the horse.

Days and months are travellers of eternity. So are the years that pass by. Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth till they succumb to the weight of years, spend every minute of their lives travelling. There are a great number of ancients, too, who died on the road. I myself have been tempted for a long time by the cloud-moving wind - filled with a strong desire to wander.

Traveler's heart. Never settled long in one place. Like a portable fire.