1So it was said so long ago,
And reaching the end we but wish we could
Go back to the gate at which we stood,
Opting to challenge our greatest foe.
Then, grown-ups were all we could call them,
And, in fairness, that is what they were.
They held the key to that gate, that gem,
And, hiding thoughts they would to condemn,
We snuck right past their watches obscure.
The road past that gate was not like home.
As we gathered still more complex tasks,
We jotted them down in our growing tomes,
Kept the stories obtained by our roams,
And they would serve as our grown-up masks.
Now we are at the end of our ways,
And here we find the divergence fused
By another oak gate, closing frays
That yet open up to endless strays,
As if we are meant to be confused.
Far more than two roads now are diverged,
And sorry we cannot travel all,
But be we travellers long converged,
We look down all as far as they surge,
Knowing we each must choose our own call.
We stand here together one last time,
Watching our peers move on through the wood.
Leaving this place seems all but a crime,
But proudly still we leave it behind,
Keeping as treasures all where we stood.