| «Benedicto: May your trails be crooked,
|
| winding, lonesome, dangerous,
|
| leading to the most amazing view.
|
| May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.
|
| May your rivers flow without end,
|
| meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells,
|
| past temples and castles and poets' towers into a dark
|
| primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl,
|
| through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into
|
| a desert of red rock, blue mesas,
|
| domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone,
|
| and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm
|
| where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs,
|
| where deer walk across the white sand beaches,
|
| where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the
|
| high crags, where something strange and more beautiful
|
| and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits
|
| for you beyond the next turning of the canyon walls.» |