For days we ran, the axle shrilling in the heat,
the cart-poles grinding deeper in the bone;
no oxen left—we bore the weight alone
of mother and the road beneath our feet.
We ran because the wheels would not retreat—
the weeds snapped sharp inside the turning spokes,
the road pulled tight between the fields and stones,
and Delphi lifted pale beyond the wheat.
They say Apollo gave the brothers rest—
sleep sealed their eyes like mercy in the dark.
But legend lies. We woke. The harness bit
again the flesh. We turned our faces west
and saw the glacier’s old, receding mark,
a line of stones still marching south of it.