Beyond the count of years I walked the world,
and my children built their shrines to me.
Decades and centuries and millennia pass,
and still the shrines are built.
Temples insubstantial to men,
clear to my eyes.
No foundations or walls or roofs,
but shrines nonetheless.
Holy ground, consecrated
Today, every day, somewhere in the world,
the earth is prepared for my coming.
My hallowed grounds are everywhere.
In valleys and on mountains,
on broad plains and deep in hidden passes,
in deserts, on city streets.
Nameless, unremembered places.