The Dawn of the Awakened Soul
Beneath a sprawling sky of tender hue,
There dwelled a soul, akin to waking dream,
In fields that blushed with dawn’s ethereal view.
The countryside, a canvas brushed with gold,
Where rolling hills and rivers soft did wind,
A world both ancient, yet anew, yet old,
A realm of whispers stirring heart and mind.
This soul, unshaped by time’s relentless hand,
Awoke as morning’s chorus kissed the air,
A nascent spirit poised to understand
The pulse that stirred within—a hope laid bare.
“Who am I?” the silent question breathed,
As petals opened to the waking sun,
“With what purpose am I thus enwreathed,
And whence my journey’s thread is just begun?”
The meadow’s breath, a gentle lullaby,
Would answer not in words but subtle signs,
In rustling leaves, the distant linnet’s cry,
Where every sound a secret truth enshrines.
Our soul, intrepid, took its trembling step,
Through pathways fresh and shadows newly grown,
A wand’ring child of twilight’s subtle depth,
To seek the heart’s own genesis unknown.
Each blade of grass, a miniature of hope,
Each flower’s bloom, a metaphor disclosed,
The varied hues of life’s kaleidoscope,
Their fragrance whispered riddles, gently posed.
A brook, that babbled tales in murmured tones,
Spoke of the ceaseless flow of time’s embrace,
Inviting earthen roots and ancient stones,
To bear the weight of dreams in quiet grace.
“Awake, O soul, and taste the morning’s balm,
For in this light thou shalt discover thee.
The world, though vast, bestows a silver calm,
A mirror of thy boundless destiny.”
So spoke the wind through branches lean and tall,
A sage with wisdom veiled in rustling song,
And in that voice, the soul discerned the call,
To journey forth, to seek where truths belong.
Through field and fen, through copse of emerald shade,
The soul traversed, with heart attuned and tried,
Encountered creatures in the glen that played,
Each bearing tales of struggle, hope, and pride.
A stag with eyes like amber autumn fire,
Reminded of the strength that lies within,
A fox that moved with wit and quiet desire,
Imparted lessons veiled with humble grin.
Yet not alone did soul begin to roam;
In solitude, a whispered thought took flight:
“Is purpose found in places lost to home,
Or in the silent dawn that births the light?”
This question echoed in the quiet glen,
Where shadows danced like phantoms of the past,
And memories, akin to falling fen,
Revealed that journeys both were slow and fast.
Amid the golden haze where larks ascend,
The soul beheld a distant, lofty peak,
A monolith where sky and earth would blend,
And secrets of the self it sought to seek.
No guide but stars that glimmered faintly deep,
No map but echoes woven in the breeze,
Such were the tools that led the soul to keep—
A faithful step through nature’s reveries.
At eve, when twilight’s fingers cooled the plain,
The soul would rest beneath the elder tree,
Whose gnarled boughs held stories not in vain,
Of those who walked and yearned to be set free.
“Know this,” the tree’s slow murmurs seemed to say,
“Life’s quest is not to find the final shore,
But in each waking hour’s gentle play,
To grow, to hope, to love, to be once more.”
Thus nurtured by the earth and sky’s embrace,
The soul within began to light its flame,
Each dawn a promise drawn upon its face,
Each sunset fed its ever-burning claim.
No longer lost among the mists of doubt,
But anchored in the soil of self’s delight,
The journey’s end, a truth that shone throughout:
That waking leads to endless morning bright.
And so, beneath the Aube’s radiant gaze,
Where fields awake in hues of rose and gold,
The soul enflamed, enraptured by the maze,
Found in itself a story to be told.
A tale of hope, through quest and quiet strife,
Of identity in nature’s boundless thrall,
Where every dawn renewed the gift of life—
And happiness did crown the soul’s soft call.
