She stumbles on,
Her body shaking,
And her hands trembling.

She marches the best she can,
Across a field of thorns,
That pierce her skin.
That rip, and tear, and destroy,
Endless.

Her skin is pale,
Painted with bright red ink,
The fruits of her own efforts,
Her feet are worn to the bone,
The skin shredded and torn,
Gone.

Still she does her best to march,
The only sound she hears is that of her own struggles,
The beat of her heart is now too faint to reach her ears.

She is cold,
And will always be cold.
She is hungry,
And always will be hungry.

She is alone in her field,
And always will be.

Body coated with sweat,
Her clothes claimed by the thorns’
She soldiers on naked,
Open to the world’s harms.

Two sparrows pass by,
Free as birds,
And see the poor sight.
One looks into her hollow ice eyes,
And feels his own heart fill with lead.

“Why, O why, does she keep going?”

“I think,” said the other,
“That it might very well be Love,
But it is so hard to tell.”

“Poor thing,” says the first.
“Can’t see what we see,
That there is no end.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong.” says the second.
“She knows very well she is making no progress.
She may as well be walking in place.
But she walks.
Towards her goal,
Whatever it might be.
And as she walks,
She slowly,
Slowly,
Disappears.”

After a long pause, the first chimes in;
“I hope it’s worth it.”

And the second says, with tears in his eyes;
“I hope she turns around.”