Mist like,
veils of time slowly lift,
showing a path that seems to drift,
meandering as if by chance.
Life's map,
once scribed in youthful hues,
now guides in ways I didn't choose.
I attend skyward in askance.
I knew my goal.
I knew my way,
yet somehow I have gone astray.
Another's hand or just mischance?
Do I follow or do I lead?
as along the path I proceed,
to some promised heavenly manse?
I won't bemoan,
whatever my fate,
nor sing of my successes great.
Instead,
I will just enjoy the dance,
moving with purpose,
not adrift,
thankful for the mapmaker's gift,
a road to guide through life's expanse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem