The temple slowly crumbles as the passing years take their toll,

The prayer wheels no longer rumble on their spindles as they roll,

Worn spindle thin by the passing wishes of a thousand hands,

Scorn mingled in with a lasting feeling no-one understands,

The rivulets of rain have washed the features from the faces,

They stimulate the brain and lock the speeches in their places,

It's an old bone and slackened jaw that now recites the prayers,

And the cold stone upon the floor reminds the feet of those stood there,

That a cold hole cut into earth awaits the faithful congregation,

And a bold soul accepts all births will travel to this destination,

And not a single pilgrim standing there amongst the faithful brethren,

Has the simplest understanding of how much time they've got,

And so they cling to empty words chanted by this faithful gathering,

Hoping that their penitence will save them from the slot,

But some know the truth, see the grave for what it really is,

A consequence of living, a toll and nothing more,

And they don't waste their time fretting on the destination,

They live for the journey, 'cos that's what the journey's for.