Echoes of a Fading Light

A locked garden where blooms once swayed,

Now thorns guard the door to delight.

The sun’s warm touch, a memory played,

Fades—pale as the stars that do not shine at night.

 

The taste of laughter, a ghost on my tongue,

Where joy once dripped sweet, now stagnant rain.

 

Mountains of mirth, reduced to a flat, gray song,

Each note a hollow where color should remain.

I plant seeds of hope in the cracks of the floor,

Yet roots find no water, no reason to grow.

 

Applause echoes, but it never reaches my core—

A silent film, its soundtrack long since gone.

 

You speak of fire, of dances, of golden wine,

But my hands clutch only the chill of the air.

 

Your symphony sounds like a language I’m blind to—

A world painted vibrant, but I have no there.

 

It is winter here; I’ve lost the name of spring.

The heart, a clockwork wound, ticks nothing instead of song.