The Death Of The Wanderer's Song Poem by Yasmin Hemmat

In the garden, by the quiet murmuring stream,
I heard a wanderer sing,
Beneath the old oak branches:
'Life is but a fleeting thing'.

And all the winds in the garden
Began to stir and call:
'Do not trust the moment,
It slips away from all'.

In life, where truths are elusive and fleet,
The deadly hand of time lays waste to all we see,
All we hold dear crumbles beneath its feet,
Like sand across the sea.

Don't strive to name the fleeting,
Or to carve your moments into time,
Yet moments and memories flicker,
Like a candle's flame in wind's soft chime.

In sighs and in remembrance
Vaguely memories stray,
And Time will paint its canvas
With a brush of Gray.

Stop and touch the roses,
Let their thorns prick your skin;
Search, search within the garden of your mind,
For all that might have been.

The cold wind whispers secrets,
The shadows hide in the mind,
And the quiet garden closes
The doorways to the sublime.

Where the dreamers are still awakened,
The seeker finds the key,
In the labyrinth of shadows,
Where every memory roams free.

But it is late, late in the garden,
The seeker lost his way;
The shadows deepened softly,
And the wanderer's song died away.