Blessed be those who wander,

For theirs is the kingdom to ponder.

A little light shall shed it’s grace

Before their weary, haggard face.

Blessed be those who seek;

They shall discover the peaks.

Among the highest of their race,

Higher even than all of space.

Blessed be those who write,

For theirs is the words of the night.

Another tune shall soon be sung,

Upon which their words are hung.

Blessed be those who weep;

They shall at last find sleep.

Moving onward towards an end

Beyond which man can comprehend.

Blessed be those who read,

For they shall learn all they need.

Beyond their hearts another plane

Wherein lies loss all the same.

Blessed be the turning page—

A time beside the lonesome sage.

No more shall we be the same,

We have grown in more than name.

Blessed be the kindling fires

That bid us imbibe in holy desires.

Continuing on till night doth part;

Leaving us to play among sacred art.

Blessed be the little horse

On whom many have set their course.

It is his shoulders that bear the weight

Of poor Atlas’ unending fate.

Blessed be the story keeper

Who knows the tales of ancient steeples.

May their wisdom serve them well,

For they will help those suffering hell.

Blessed be the stars that guide,

Who keep the hearts, souls, and minds.

Till among them do we all return

And trade our stories for a little urn.

Then we will at last be free.

Blessed be the stars of you and me.