In the junction connecting the city with the meadows
grows a grove of thin silver birches of average heights
And in the gaps between three sister trunks the cynosure
lie unsullied a fork and two paths reaching out of sights
One brimmed with rosy birdsong and amber flicker
And the other bathed in frosty mist and lulling whisper
Thus either ought be gracious in choice of selection, and I 
                Will choose that path for now, my moiety sole
On some roads the ground is flat and bare
on others only boulders and soaked mud are found
But behind me the trails are closing; the trees cloaking
Verdict own between the blooms dotted among tall verdure
And the umbrage of lofted branches and their skylit foliage
At some points of divergence is a stone bench
at others only the voices of forest beasts are heard
But behind me the green has turned to lonely merse
Drown with refreshing abundance through crashing swells 
or in thirst wither along with the rising curtains of hot air
Feathers of aurora seem to conflate to a lit beacon
as the draft settles and loses its defining moisture
At last, do I descry the end? From this post I turn, regard—
There lies not the path whence I arrived, or perhaps it lingers
amongst the hundreds of paths all leading to where I stand;
trifled the passing choices— they would merge into one.