Path (Winding Ever Onward) Poem by Henrik Berg

I follow, but I'm not a follower.
I see the path, winding ever onward,
Over stream, stone and shrub,
And I walk it, unflinching, almost devout.

We take it in, yet we're not taken,
By its beauty. Pine, birch and aspen.
Our steps distrub, leaves, moss and snow.
Breaking twigs, but not the silence.

You are alive, but yet not living,
Untill you walk these woods, they say.
Untill you've lost your sense of direction,
You will never go find your own way.