He leaves his silver trail behind, But has no silver on his way; His path is rough, and sometimes dark, And troubles come by night and day: Slowly he moves – this humble snail – And never sees his silver trail. So, men who give us golden lines Have written them in blood and sweat, Time never turns a thought to gold, Unless a tear has made it wet: They suffer – like these humble snails – And never see their golden trails. |