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 River of Tomorrow
Beneath the endless stretch of skies,
where dawn is born and daylight dies,
a river flows with silver gleam,
carrying whispers, thought, and dream.
It curves through mountains old and wise,
reflecting stars in midnight’s eyes,
it hums a song both deep and slow,
of things we’ve lost, and those we know.
Upon its banks the willows lean,
their branches weaving threads unseen,
like hands that long to touch the stream,
to catch a fragment of its dream.
A traveler comes, his heart is worn,
his shoes are frayed, his cloak is torn,
he kneels beside the water’s edge,
to drink of truth, to break a pledge.
For in the current’s liquid face,
he sees a younger self in place,
a boy with laughter in his chest,
who once believed in endless rest.
The boy is gone, the man remains,
but in his bones, the echo stains,
and so he asks the river near,
“Where goes the time I held so dear?”
The river speaks in murmured tones,
like wind that chills the marrowed bones:
“The hours you sought, they live in me,
forever drifting, wild, and free.
You cannot grasp, you cannot bind,
the flowing breath of humankind.
But you can walk, and you can sing,
and honor what the waters bring.”
A woman follows, lantern bright,
her face aglow with borrowed light.
She casts her hopes into the stream,
each word a fragile, fleeting gleam.
Her voice is soft, her prayer is true:
“Let love endure, though days are few.
Let sorrow fade, let laughter stay,
guide gentle hands along the way.”
The river takes her lantern’s glow,
and scatters sparks to stars that show,
that every plea, though whispered small,
still weaves its echo over all.
Then children come with eager cries,
their pockets filled with butterflies,
they chase them down the water’s song,
not knowing time is never long.
Their laughter rings, it skips, it bends,
and in that sound, the sorrow ends.
For rivers feed on joy as well,
not only grief that hearts will tell.
A poet sits with ink-stained hand,
a notebook spread across the sand.
He dips his pen into the flow,
and writes the things he’ll never know.
His words are carried far and wide,
across the current’s endless tide.
They bloom in hearts he’ll never meet,
they soften loss, they make life sweet.
The river hums: “So all may find,
the stories left by humankind.
Each line you give, each breath you save,
becomes a ripple, strong and brave.”
The night grows deep, the stars are kind,
the moon reflects a silver mind.
The river keeps its steady pace,
the travelers rest in its embrace.
It teaches not to fight or bind,
but flow with patience, soft, aligned.
For time will come, and time will go,
yet still the river learns to grow.
So walk the banks and hear it call,
the rise of spring, the fall of fall.
For in its depths, both old and new,
the river carries me, and you.
And when at last the journey’s done,
when dust returns, when breath is gone,
the river whispers, cool and low:
“Nothing is lost. All waters flow.”
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