Roads diverge and not only,
In a yellow wood,
But anywhere along the realm
Of might, and should and could

Along the road of traveled best,
And traveled less,
And traveled not at all,
The trees, their leaves, from green to gold
Do change and gently fall

Cry not for these leaves,
Carried by the wind,
For dreams, like roads,
Do twist and turn
And end, and start again

We are all but travelers,
Each on their chosen path,
And at times, the heart will mourn,
Regret the choice,
And longingly look back

But time is short on these roads,
And forward it must flow,
All roads pass through flower beds
and fields of thorns,
But in the end, to the same place go.

(c)Geeta Boodansingh 2011