Who feared, as hope’s flowers unfolded,
that blossoms might fade
with unseasonal change
and petals blow free down the wind?
Who dreamed, when love’s singing first started,
that melodies drifting
through dissonant chords
could keen like a nightbird’s last cry?
Who dared, with life’s dance just beginning,
to partner with fates
unaccustomed to grasp
at the swift, sudden stumbles of time?
Who wept, at the journey’s frail ending,
for the path never taken,
the compass unused,
the years still untrodden, untried?