Untitled by Dideric van den Berg

Once through a misty glade,
trudged a soldier bereft.
Soulless wanderers joined,
like to a weaving's weft.

Which direction forward?
Our wanderers question.
The whole is made,
By crossed direction.

He answers smooth,
No pause to think.
It doesn't matter,
Just don't blink.

Or you shall miss it.