The first twenty years

Were so well charted . . .

Mapped by a culture

Overflowing with assumptions,

Riddled with contradictions,

But so compelling

It was difficult to stray

From the appointed path.

Inwardly I pursued a different course,

But always in proximity to the chart

With roads deeply marked and worn.

The next three decades

Were far more stormy . . .

Full of dead-ends

And wrong directions

And I discovered my map

Was out of date. . .

Gone are the landmarks

And cherished trails . . .

Only crumbling ruins

And memories of monuments now vanished

Remain as instruments of navigation.