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Passing Strangers

The road that meets my weary feet, A dusty
path or narrow street, Leads onward to what
lies ahead, It seems such words somewhere
I've read. Not all the wanderers shall find, Footsteps some may leave behind, Yet
walk they do to whatever end, Some alone
and some with a friend.

Across the paths of other men, Then never
more to cross again, They glimpse a face in passing by, Then not again until they die. And
I a stranger just as well, My story to you may never tell, No more than just a passing shade, to disappear into the glade.

How oft the face familiar seems, Was it for real or just in dreams, I knew you once so long ago,
But I cannot recall if it were so. The road that rises to my tread, Is where the hand of God has led, Not of my choice or if it were, My recollection is but a blur.

And when I stop it will be complete, Where
other souls have come to meet, And wonder
did I know your name, As you are wondering
the same

      Poem by, J.S. MacDonald