‎Life‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌ of a Man

Man’s life is like an incredibly delicate bubble,

trembling quietly under a never-ending gamble.

He goes up in cheer, he drops in dispair,

he seeks for meaning with a silent prayer. ‎ ‎

The ocean tides do this to him: pull him under, then lift him to the flight,

he breaks during the daylight, only to gather by the darkness of the night.

A flicker, a whisper, a fragment of a song,

he is an existence that spans the times, both frail and strong. ‎ ‎

At dawn behind the old house when the shadows creep,

A plant, just like a man, was bowed and woke up from its sleep.

The birds came to tell it of the mountains and the skies,

From faraway valleys, as dreams are destined to rise. ‎

‎The plant overheard the songs and the breeze,

it suffered for the sun, it stretched without feeling unease.

It threw itself at the sky with a quivering cry,

but fell into the dust under a weeping sky. ‎ ‎

The road heard its lament, the stones felt its pain,

but deep in the dirty clay, little roots would remain.

The broken ones still talked for rain and for warmth hold,

For days never lived and for stories not told. ‎ ‎

The snow on the mountains will give in to spring,

The valleys will become open, the lost birds will sing.

The seeds just like man’s moments will grow from the muddy clay,

And they will see the dawn in the quiet of the day. ‎

‎Walk gently through the garden where the shattered dreams are lying,

Where flowers are still closed and the dreams are never drying.

Do not break the silence, do not knock on the ground,

For dreams are like bits of fire that go out with a sound. ‎

‎Still a man is on that never-ending river out of sight,

Still holding on to pieces of dreams that he once might have seen bright.

Still he can hear the footsteps that make the softer stone,

Although the fallen man is never ‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌alone.