The
Road
Climbs
Ever
Up,
Through
The
Mountain
Passes,
Rust
Hills
On
Either
Side,
The
Spaces
Opening
Wide.
There
Is
A
Sense
Of
Anticipation,
Murmuring
Ghosts
Of
A
Lost
Indian
Nation,
On
And
Up,
The
Sky
An
Inverted
Cup,
To
Come
At
Last
Into
A
Fading
Vision
Of
The
Past,
With
Nothing
There
But
Sunlight
And
Brilliant,
Empty
Air.