The Song of Endless Roads I. The Beginning The morning stirs with golden breath, A hush before the day is born. The earth awakens, soft and slow, Its heart still trembling from the dawn. I step into the waiting silence, Shoes damp with dew, lungs filled with sky. The road before me bends and whispers, “Walk on, child, don’t ask why.” For every path has secrets hidden, Carved in stone and sung by streams, And those who dare to keep on walking Find their footsteps leading into dreams. II. Voices of the Earth The fields are choirs of quiet wonder, Grass blades hum in emerald rows. The trees hold council in their stillness, Guardians of what the spirit knows. Birdsong bursts like sudden laughter, Rising clear where shadows fade. Each feathered voice a note of freedom, Each trill a hymn creation made. The wind becomes my patient teacher, Tracing stories along my skin. It speaks of journeys without ending, Of worlds that live both out and in. III. The Weight ...
The Garden of Eternal Dawn
In the hush before the rising sun,
Where night’s long vigil is nearly done,
There lies a garden, unseen by eyes,
A realm of whispers, where silence lies.
The air is woven with scents of grace,
Petals of memory bloom in place.
Each leaf is etched with a tale untold,
Each stem is rooted in dreams of old.
A traveler wanders with trembling feet,
The garden beckons, its call discreet.
Through arches woven of ivy green,
He steps into what has never been.
The roses burn with a gentle flame,
Each one whispering someone’s name.
They hold the laughter of years gone by,
And shimmer softly when breezes sigh.
A willow bends with ancient care,
Its branches dripping with secret prayer.
Every tear that the lost have cried,
Is gathered here, where none can hide.
The traveler kneels beside a stream,
Its silver waters reflect a dream.
Not of the past, nor days unborn,
But of the heart both bruised and worn.
The current hums with a steady tone,
“You are not broken, not alone.
The roots that crack, the leaves that fall,
Are part of one vast song for all.”
He walks on paths of golden light,
Where shadows yield without a fight.
Each stone he treads is a memory kept,
Each flower blooms where sorrow wept.
He sees a child with eyes so wide,
Chasing butterflies that cannot hide.
Her laughter floats, a crystal bell,
In the garden where no one says farewell.
He sees a mother, soft and kind,
Her gaze a lantern for hearts that bind.
She plants her love in the fertile ground,
And blossoms rise where her touch is found.
He sees a soldier, weary and torn,
Carrying burdens that others scorn.
He lays his armor upon the grass,
And feels his anguish slowly pass.
He sees an artist, brush in hand,
Painting visions that understand.
His canvas lives with colors bright,
A sky reborn in every night.
The traveler feels his chest grow light,
As if his spirit takes gentle flight.
The garden speaks in a thousand ways,
Of endless nights and brighter days.
For here, the cycle is never still,
The bloom obeys both fate and will.
The seed must break, the bud must fall,
But love remains to cradle all.
He lingers long, but dawn must rise,
The sun ascends in painted skies.
The garden shimmers, fades from sight,
Yet stays within his soul alight.
And when he wakes in the mortal land,
He carries petals in his hand.
Not made of matter, but of flame,
Each one whispering a holy name.
He tells the world of the garden near,
Where hearts are healed, where souls are clear.
Where every loss is turned to song,
And broken spirits find they belong.
The world may ache, the roads may bend,
But the garden waits beyond each end.
Through grief, through hope, through every yawn,
It blooms within the eternal dawn.
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