The Dawn of Sorrow

It’s the dawn of sorrow, a mournful light, But who can we blame in this endless night? No heart to charm, no soul to ache, No wound remains for the heart to break. The lamps are out, their glow has died, No one waits with hope inside. This age of calm is harsh and still, No restless hearts, no burning will. Even prayers, when hands are raised, Forget their wishes, once so praised. The tales of journeys, once so clear, Now lost in dust, they disappear. It’s the dawn of sorrow, a mournful light, But who can we blame in this endless night? No heart to charm, no soul to ache, No wound remains for the heart to break. To speak of dreams, a fleeting game, For time now drags, each hour the same. We trust no season’s fleeting mood, Its whims no longer understood. We wandered paths in search of trace, A footprint’s guide, a glowing face. But no bright sun lights up the way, No golden beam turns night to day. Yet one obsession stayed alive, Through sorrow’s storm, it did survive. No grief, no blame, no spring’s delight, Could sway the heart or change its sight. Parched lips wandered the barren plains, In search of life’s elusive gains. But those who sought the stream so far, Found no river, no life’s nectar.