The wheel turns not for wrath or grace,
It turns because it must.
The stars do not recall your face,
Nor marble hold your trust.
I once walked paths where music grew,
Where thought was fruit, and speech was dew.
Now silence tends the garden gate,
And time forgets what once was true.
Shall I curse the wheel for turning?
Shall I beg the sky to stay?
Or shall I learn the art of yearning,
And sing what cannot slip away?
For memory is not a prison—
It is a lamp, a thread, a shore.
And though the sea may steal my kingdom,
It cannot take what I adore.
So let the wheel grind down my name,
Let banners fall and tyrants fade.
I’ll be forged with truth in ash and flame,
And return again to your loving gaze.