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A Tale of Footprints

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I took a walk down the village path And read the tales on its face. The morning after a rainy night. A thousand-tales told and retold In the marks of those gone before. Some full, some half trodden down Some giantish, some dwarfish Some clear, some blur, vanishing. All equally lie, telling their tale For who cares to read. Tales of hope, tales of fear Some of terrors and tragedies And many unhurried paces of romance. Read:  Village Boy Impressions - The Days of Bliss Long I stood reading the silent tales As far as the eye could see For many were the words on that path Speaking in varied pitches of voice Some speak in the center of the path; And leave deep tales in the dust Those are fast trodden under and lost. Others speak gruffly on the edges Brushings thorns and stubs and weeds And hardly leave an impression But the dying weeds tell their tale. By their effort the path grows.  Many prints diverge To the right and to the