The Years Left to My Pen, The World Within My Ink

I once believed my pen could hold the sky, And dreamed of writing all the human world.

Each line I wrote would seep into the heart; Each stroke I cut could tear the soul apart.

Ink fell on paper, spreading like my tears— This pen has traced both sorrow and delight.

I wished that every word might kindle light, Yet words fell short while meaning lingered on.

The wind across my pen distilled farewell; Beyond the parting clouds, I wait for dawn.

I’d rather spend my remaining years against the wind Than bow my head before a life of sorrow.

How many years are granted to a life? Why let each step be burdened by its pain?

I’ll gather frost and snow beneath my brow, And with a quiet smile, watch the setting sun.