He fears traveling always alone
With loneliness a precondition
His price to God for his passage.
Surely not that, but for his sin.
He hopes his small act of creation
A reaching out to touch another
Not the selfish cry of a child
Feeling pain, demanding comfort.
While he has tried to touch a little
Some few he has met along the way
And given hostages as well
This too may be the sin of pride.
Yet the gift, however small, exists
May have a little truth in it
And if he believes and tries hard
He may let another touch him.