Lament

Once, the world was woven from dreams—

A gathering of melody, of gentle themes.

Now, every heart lies mute and still,

Each gaze is heavy, languid, ill.

Where are the dawns with their whispered grace,

Secrets hiding in their tender embrace?

Where are those dusks, once tuned with care,

That sang of solitude yet filled the air?

Where is that laughter the winds would bring?

That softness, that innocent fluttering?

Why does each moment now recoil in disdain—

Each scene drenched in silence, soaked in pain?

O Time! Why is your craft only to erase?

Why grant us dreams, then steal their trace?

We lit our lamps, let walls bear witness,

Yet your darkness clings with blood-stained swiftness.

We wrote of love, composed our song,

Built instruments both fine and strong—

And still, your storms have swept them bare,

Left every name lost in the air.

Did our devotion mean naught to you?

Were we worth just silence, nothing true?

O Nature! Why are you silent, too?

Why offer no answer, no echo through?

Is there no living rhythm in your core—

No vibrant pulse, no music anymore?

Once we stole your hues to paint our skies,

Wove dreams from fragrance, stitched with sighs.

Now, why send us back with empty hands—

Seasonless, voiceless, to barren lands?

Why has this world become a market of pain—

Where even laughter wears a price,

And tears are auctioned off in vain?

O heart! How long must you endure?

How long must your cry go obscure?

When shall someone truly hear—

When shall this age begin to clear?