We, the voyagers of longing, do waver oftentimes,
Life itself here treads so slow, in softened, muted chimes.
Not deep wounds, but the healing touch, unsettles me within,
For every gash that fate bestows, a balm awaits akin.
None await my steps today, no eyes in yearning dwell,
O cupbearer, pour! For time abounds, and moments bid me well.
Judge not my youth by years alone, nor age by greying strands,
For wisdom’s weight oft tips the scales, where knowledge sternly stands.
I am but counted, placed, and marked, like tokens on a board,
Yet I hold no will to move—while "we" are vast and scored.
The solace of release is scarce, the struggle ne’er subsides,
The torment of the soul remains, in tides that ever ride.
How long shall fleeting respite last, how brief this borrowed calm,
When cries of woe and grief resound, like ever-ringing psalms?
I dust the heavens' will away, defying sacred thread,
For Eve was but a fleeting tale, while Adam’s woes have spread.
We, entangled in worldly woe, in ceaseless toil remain,
Where love’s soft whispers call to us, but time resists its reign.
O Aish, sow not thy words in soil where sorrow sways,
For this is land too drenched in tears
—where earth itself decays.
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