A Dream Proposal

The morning arrives in a soft light, sketching the day with care,
and within it rests a quiet, lonely dream proposal of youth.
Then comes the reckless joy of summer, fierce and wild,
entering every child’s heart with the promise that
one day in dreams, the rhythm of worldly valleys will be filled.
 
A free soul rises, seeking a height above the trees,
while the books once cast down upon the earth
burn their pages in the warmth of a hearth.
Rivers dry from winter’s breath, emotions freed from silt—
and tell me, was there a better way to become human?
 
Here is where decay will settle, here the conviction of the heart,
here forever the flame of a clear day glows.
There is a joy in knowing,
and so I rise on wings toward the sky.
But who gave you the right to measure my time?
The sun at noon now washes every ache away,
and without a sound begins its slow descent—
light fading until life’s next chapter calls.
 
What the world has lost, where shall I seek it today?
Summer speaks in laments and tears,
entering the mind, knocking at the doors of the wind.
The soul has chosen to wait a little longer,
as I keep vigil with the stars,
hoping for forgotten dreams to return.
Birds fall asleep, shadows creep,
mountains are slowly wrapped in dusk.
The forest sheds its terror, lost in the splendor of night.
 
A dark stairway, steep beneath the high dome,
climbs upward, smaller and smaller,
toward a path of joy.
Higher still—where I dream, day and night, of ascent.
And yet, the proposal was flawed—
a promise young and trembling,
measured in sunlight,
measured against the laboring minds of men.
Error lives there,
and the pledge remains a dream proposal only—
a plan of the past, carried to the next generation.
 
At the end of dream’s path there is shadow,
and far above, the border of light burns the body to ash.
Then comes the cool of the poles,
streaming through the nerves with solemn beauty.
Age arrives, and the evening star whispers:
Now it is dusk. Birds are returning home.
 
The cunning desires of past lives—
they are past now,
freed at last from deceit,
liberated from betrayal.
Old dreams collapse today,
failed projects, broken blueprints.
So far from the faith they once held,
their possibilities wasted,
their worth gone—
mere scraps for weakened nerves.
 
The quiet, lonely dream proposal of youth—
it chose wrong time, wrong space, wrong vessel.
Hope fell short,
life stood in vain at the doorway of eternity.
And what is its worth now?
Some succeed, some fail.
The dream itself drifts away,
nameless, weightless, forgotten.