"Progress, like the stars," he said,
"lights us. Like engines climbing, hungering fuels.
Their machines angelic and hopeful
metaphysically." The light was burning down
a low gray hill in a bramble of bindweed.
"And so," he said, "that early miracle, the wheel.
A practical solution to the burden
of the animal. How made?
From stone. But when we found a way, turning wood
and forge-blasting rims of iron willed
to navigate the holy circle, our symbol
of complete devotion" (here he made the sign
of the Cross, looked up and smiled
at me) "we found the round wheel, spoked and all, could
travel like the sun. So it was. God's will."
The light was almost gone. Bed
of earth, darkness. And now the fire slowly schooled
our eyes as he leaned closer, watchful
of his pupil. "This other purpose summons
clemency. Grace for wandering souls," he said.
"They learn the right direction from our compass wheel."
And turned to one alone. Blood
on his wrists, face, his burned side, ankles
where ropes tied him to the spokes and the small bone
broke through. "This is progress too," my master said.
"To think of them, souls rising. It's a way. All
faith asks is forgiveness, good.
Now look." There was a light brimming, full
in the dying eyes, full. And I knew it then,
why the everlasting wheel was invented.