Carefully did she choose Where her feet would gain further ground, Each step an extension of the idea Behind the symbolical trumpet. Behind her, closely, a growing trail of golden flames, Ready to consume the bridge, that was just being crossed By her who commands both dawn and dusk, in its entirety, Leaving but a skeleton of stone. Upon reaching the end said bridge, now groaning Under the pressure of impending death, she turns her head For one last view of, not the piece of work that is about To face its certain end, but the land that lies behind it, And for just one second A gleam of content flashes up in her eyes. And so she marches on.