The Weight of Ages: Modern Sonnets - страница 8

A promise whispered on the gentle breeze,

Of verdant hues and blossoms yet to be.

The melting snow, a harbinger of ease,

Foretells the coming of spring's liberty.

So, let the teardrops fall, a silver rain,

For, life reborn will rise and bloom again.

The lines etched deep, a map upon the face,

Tell tales of journeys, triumphs, and of tears.

No youthful blush retains its fleeting grace,

But something deeper now the spirit wears.

The hasty judgments of a younger mind

Have softened now to empathy and grace.

The world's harsh lessons, carefully defined,

Have found their rightful, purposeful embrace.

No longer chasing visions, bright and bold,

But tending slow the garden of the soul,

A quiet strength, a story to be told.

The wisdom of the years takes its toll,

Yet, leaves behind a treasure to behold:

A heart that understands and makes us whole.

A whispered word, a shadowed, furtive glance,

A secret kept within the gilded cage

Of family pride, a delicate, cruel dance

Where truth is veiled upon life's fragile stage.

The portraits stare, impassive and austere,

As cracks appear within the polished frame,

And whispers rise, fuelled by unspoken fear,

Igniting gossip's ever-hungry flame.

A name is tarnished, honour gently bled,

As loyalties are tested, torn apart.

The web of kinship, carefully outspread,

Now tangled, knotted, wounds each beating heart.

The scandal breaks, and silence fills the air,

A legacy of shame, beyond repair.

In this global age, where borders blur and fade,

And cultures clash in digital displays,

A haunting question lingers, unafraid:

Where does my true identity now lay?

The traditions of my fathers, once so clear,

Now mingled are with streams from distant lands,

A tapestry of influences, held dear,

Yet, leaving me with empty, grasping hands.

I am a citizen of earth, they say,

But feel the roots of heritage still tug,

A dissonance that haunts me day by day,

A fractured mirror reflecting back a hug

Of past and present, future yet unknown,

A quest for self in seeds that I have sown.

Pale orb of night, a silent, watchful eye,

You hang suspended in the velvet deep.

A gentle beacon in the starlit sky,

Where restless dreams a solemn vigil keep.

You paint the world in shades of silver bright,