Promesses Exilées au Cœur des Sommets Neigeux

Beneath the weight of heavy skies and stars too sad to shine,
The errant wanderer strode along a path both cold and fine;
His memories, like crushed rosebuds, lay strewn beneath his feet,
While echoing through caverns bleak his long-forgotten beat.
A promise, soft and faintly made amidst a gentle spring,
Still haunted him with silent tread as though it wished to sing
A hymn of hope, now long decayed, yet tender in its call—
A pledge unkept, a love unmet, whose loss did ever enthrall.

Upon a crag of ice and stone, he paused to catch his breath,
Observing nature’s solemn throne of winter’s timeless death.
The sullen clouds that veiled the peak did weep in crystal tears,
And whispered secrets of the past beneath the shroud of years.
For when the bloom of youth was draped in promise bright and bold,
There thrived a fervent vow made dear—await the soul’s unfold;
A covenant of tender care, of solace in return,
A pledge to mend the wounds of time, though now the embers burn.

Yet fate, capricious mistress, orchestrated bitter strife,
And severed bonds that could not heal within the sanctum of life;
The wanderer’s love, once kindled low, was destined to recede,
Leaving but barren, windswept hope where once had grown a seed.
In lands afar, on distant shores, the promise lay concealed,
A whispered word, an unfulfilled dream, that time would not repeal,
For though the heart did fiercely beat with ardour in its chest,
It found its solace in regret—an ever-haunting pest.

Amidst the hoarfrost of the snow, where silent echoes cry,
He murmured low the vow unkept, beneath the twilight sky.
“O, Fate—thy hand is cruel and cold, to sever ties so dear!
How can a soul, in exile lost, its purpose hold so near?”
His voice, a quavering melody, did stir the wintry air,
Awakening the frozen nymphs that lingered in despair;
For every gust that swept the vale recounted sorrow’s lore,
And mingled tears with lonely winds on distant, earthen floor.

With measured steps, he trod the path that wound ‘cross ice-bound crests,
Where memories lay enshrined in frost and time in silence rests;
Each footfall echoed sonnets old of promises unmade,
As if the mountain’s ancient stones within their depths conveyed
The lingering hues of passion lost, the tender smiles now gone,
The unfulfilled embrace of hope that fled like fleeting dawn.
No minstrel in that wretched clime could ken the depth of pain,
For every breath was soaked in grief, each pulse a solemn chain.

“O, ghostly hopes of yesteryear,” he sighed with tearful gaze,
“Return unto my lonely heart from far and distant days;
Recall the oath we softly wrought beneath a budding tree,
And kindle now the absent flame that shone so bright in me.
For promise was our sacred bond, our lifeblood in its prime,
A pledge to ward off solitude, a pledge immune to time.
Yet here I wander, cast aside, forgotten on this peak,
My soul enshrouded by the snows that mute the light I seek.”

The mountain, in its kingship grim, received his plea with grace,
In swirling mists, it whispered soft of memories time’d to trace;
“Thou art the vestige of a dream, a promise left betrayed,
And in thy heart the echo dwells of vows once pure displayed;
But know, dear lost and weary soul, that fate is oft unkind,
For promises, though dearly made, are not by time confined;
The path of man is wrought with pain, and love may yet decay,
Yet even in the twilight gloom, the heart recalls the day.”

Thus spake the ancient mountain peak with voice both grave and deep,
Unveiling truths that seared the heart and bid the dreamer weep.
For in that hallowed moment, ‘neath the pall of endless ice,
He realized that hope and grief were twinned at a tragic price.
A promise, like a fragile bloom, is destined to be marred
By life’s relentless, bitter tide, by fate forever scarred;
And in the lonely winds of time, when every pledge has flown,
But remnants of a tender trust like embers overthrown.

Now, bound within the labyrinth of memory and despair,
The exiled soul ascended high, his spirit stripped and bare.
He journeyed through the spectral night, where distant echoes ring,
Recalling erstwhile sacred vows beneath the mourning spring;
The sky, a vaulted tapestry of sable, grief-torn hue,
Reflected in his tearful eyes the sorrow he once knew.
In every frozen droplet cast, in every fragment of the snow,
There lay the silent tale of promises that ceaselessly did grow.

Along the rugged, lonely trail where ice and storm converge,
He met with nature’s quiet dirge—a symphony emerged:
The torrents of the wintry gusts did chorus of regret,
While shadows danced upon the walls where light and darkness met.
“The past is but a fleeting shade,” he cried with voice forlorn,
“A promise fallen through the years, of which I now am torn;
Yet in this tempest of my soul, a spark of hope remains,
A wistful vow that binds the heart despite unyielding pains.”

In that eternal frozen realm, where silence rules supreme,
The exiled soul discerned at last the nature of his dream;
Not every plea to fate is heard, nor every word return,
And every promise made by heart must someday ache and burn.
For as the icy tendrils wrapped about his weary frame,
The bitter truth emerged with force, extinguishing the flame;
The love he once had pledged to keep, a gem that shone so bright,
Had vanished like the morning mist and fled the arms of night.

The mountain wept its crystal tears as if for every lie,
While time, relentless as the frost, prevailed beneath the sky.
The heart that dared to love so deeply now lay shattered, torn,
A monument to broken vows, by fate so cruelly worn.
In solitude, the wanderer beheld the painful, stark design
Of promises unfulfilled, a legacy to pine.
Each step he took, a dirge composed in solemn, measured rhyme,
A melancholy overture to mourn the precious time.

Within the cavern of his thought, where dreams and sorrows blend,
The promise echoed like a ghost that could not ever mend.
“Forgive me, dear departed hope,” he whispered to the pines,
“That through these lonely, frigid nights, my heart its sorrow dines.
Yet even as I pledge once more to chase the fleeting light,
My path is ever marked by loss, condemned to endless night;
No hand shall clasp, no voice conspire to heal the grievous seam
Of promises that lie unkept—a poet’s most forlorn dream.”

As dawn approached with somber step and frost adorned the lea,
The exiled soul, now tempered thus by life’s unyielding decree,
Resigned himself to solitude, to fate’s indifferent plan,
His spirit bound to endless ice, a solitary man.
His final steps upon that mount where memory did linger,
Felt as the closing note of some divine, unspoken singer;
And as the morning sun ascended, pale with wistful glow,
It bade farewell to sorrow’s child, beneath the melting snow.

Therein, upon that hallowed ground, the tale came to its close,
A dirge of hope unfulfilled and love that fate composed;
For sometimes, in the depths of night, a promise cannot mend,
Nor can the lonesome exile’s heart its broken chords attend.
Thus, with one final, shuddering sigh, he vanished into mist,
A spirit fused with bitter time and endless, mournful tryst;
His legacy inscribed in ice—a lesson harsh and true:
That promises, when left unkept, forever bid adieu.

So let this grievous saga be a beacon to the soul,
Who dares to pledge love’s sacred bond though fate exact its toll;
For in each tender, whispered vow within the frozen glade,
Lies beauty, sorrow, loss and hope, in everlasting shade.
An exile bound to snowy peaks, with burdened dreams in tow,
Reminds us that our human hearts must oft endure the woe
Of promises that flutter by like leaves upon the stream,
Ephemeral and grievous, as the endless, wistful dream.

And now, dear reader, take these words, as soft as midnight rain,
A lament for the hopeful heart—an elegy for pain;
Remember well the exiled soul whose promise could not stand,
A tale of love and tragedy scribed by fate’s unyielding hand.
The mountain keeps his quiet cry within its ancient stone,
Where every gust of wind recalls the joy that once was known;
Yet in that solemn, frozen realm, no promise dares to bloom—
A silence bittersweet remains, an everlasting gloom.