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 Stars
In the hush of a midnight meadow,
where silence wears a silver cloak,
the wind drifts soft like whispered vows,
and ancient oaks bend as they spoke.
The earth is dark, the air is deep,
yet lanterns bloom where shadows are,
not made of flame, nor glass, nor oil,
but petals born from falling stars.
They scatter wide in secret fields,
they glow with colors none can name,
a thousand hues the sky once dreamed,
now gathered here, untamed, aflame.
A wanderer walks with weary feet,
his past a road of ash and stone,
his eyes still bright with shattered hope,
though much of him feels carved to bone.
He stumbles through the grasses tall,
and lifts his face to heaven’s seam,
where stars above and stars below
entangle like a woven dream.
The flowers hum—a trembling song,
their voices soft as rainfall’s thread,
they sing of time, of loss, of love,
of those alive, and those long dead.
The wanderer kneels, his chest unstill,
he feels the ache of all he’s lost,
yet in the song a promise rings:
no dream is gone, though high the cost.
He plucks a bloom of silver flame,
its light dissolves into his palm,
a warmth that threads his hollow veins,
a whisper telling him: be calm.
The garden bends to him alone,
revealing paths of molten gold,
and through those ways he sees his past,
his younger self—so brave, so bold.
A boy who once believed in dawn,
who carved new worlds with every breath,
who loved with ease, who feared no end,
who had not walked through loss or death.
The man and boy regard each other,
a silence woven, deep, profound,
and in that hush the man recalls
the dreams he’d buried underground.
The boy dissolves; the petals close,
yet something stays inside his chest,
a flicker, soft, unyielding bright,
a vow to rise, a vow to rest.
The meadow hums; the wanderer stands,
his back made straight, his eyes made clear,
the stars above bow to the field,
as if to say: we’re always here.
For every dream that seems to fall,
is never shattered, never gone,
it plants itself in hidden ground,
and waits to bloom, again, at dawn.
So if you walk through nights of stone,
through hollow streets, through broken bars,
remember there’s a field that waits,
a secret garden made of stars.
And when your heart feels frayed with sorrow,
when hope is thin and faith feels far,
look inward, listen—soft and slow—
you carry too, a blooming star.
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