The future chants in veiled design,
a riddle carved beyond the line.
It speaks of fates we cannot see,
yet binds the soul to what must be.
Two decades back, I watched the flame,
of faces bright, untouched by shame.
They seemed to hold the secret key,
while I stood captive, asking me.
What is this joy the crowd proclaims?
Is it but light, or fleeting games?
I longed to touch their fleeting art,
yet silence weighed upon my heart.
In time, I wore the cloak they knew,
a borrowed life that felt half-true.
For happiness is but a loan,
a crown that rests on dust and bone.
Now once again their faces gleam,
as though untouched by fractured dream.
And deep within I hold my vow,
to claim their calm, though not yet now.
Yet love, the treasure none can bind,
provokes the tremor in the mind.
What worth is conquest, gold, or fame,
if absence erases love’s own name?
Thus I remain, a shadow still,
submitting thought to patient will.
The world will know the words I save,
though time may mock, though doubt may crave.
This cage is lit with ruthless brass,
its edges sharp as fractured glass.
Yet trees endure, and rivers write,
their endless hymns defying night.
Perhaps the hour itself’s a test,
to weigh the strong, expose the rest.
And when the iron gates decline,
the final measure shall be mine.
For sorrow is a teacher vast,
its questions deeper than the past.
It bends the soul to see its place,
a fleeting spark in endless space.
