A man is sitting by a tree
At rest against a mossy stone,
He watches as the moments drift
With clouds upon the breeze then strown,
Along with all his failures thrown
As memories begin to fade;
His hopes and dreams, desire gone;
Endurance with his health mislaid.
A dying man inhaling shade
With laboured breaths, his tearing eyes
Could see the past before him dance;
What could have been… his fate denies.
He said, “I wish I could revise,
Atone for my transgressions’ weight,
As moments pass so much is lost
Ah, stolen by the hands of fate.”