The Keeper of Faint Echoes

In the hush of twilight, where edges grow soft,
Lived shadows not born of mere absence of light.
But beings of feeling, ascending aloft
From objects and souls bathed in darkness or bright.

An elder among them, with tendrils so long,
A collector of whispers, a keeper of sighs,
Felt the weight of his burden, a sorrowful song,
Reflected in depths of his fathomless eyes.

He'd witnessed the laughter that bloomed in the sun,
And the tears that like dew on dark petals would gleam.
He'd gathered the triumphs, so swiftly outrun,
And the stings of regret, like a sorrowful dream.

He carried the tremor of hands clasped in fear,
The lingering warmth where a lover had lain,
The vibrant excitement of moments held dear,
And the dull, heavy ache of repetitive pain.

His form, like a phantom, would lengthen and shrink,
A metaphor painted by daylight's slow crawl.
The buoyant highs stretched him to a thin, airy ink,
While moments of sorrow would make him stand tall,

A dense, brooding presence, absorbing the gloom,
A silent companion to fortunes that spun,
From the joy of a cradle to the dread of a tomb,
His essence imbued with the life that was done.

He yearned for release, this old, weary soul,
To unburden his being of echoes amassed.
He sought a new vessel, to make his heart whole,
A haven where memories forever would last,

But transformed and uplifted, no longer a weight,
But a source of new wonder, a whisper of grace.
He gazed at the Moon, in its silvery state,
A pearl in the heavens, with a luminous face.

"Oh, Lady of Night," the old shadow would pray,
His thoughts like soft currents in darkness would flow,
"You gather the tides in your ethereal sway,
Could you take these faint feelings, these soft afterglows?"

"Could you weave them as threads in the fabric of night?
Transmute the sharp sorrow to slumbering peace?
Let joys be the stars, scattered diamond-like bright,
And the fleeting delights find a tranquil release?

Let them drift as soft whispers through dreamers' light sleep,
Illuminating the landscapes their minds wander through,
Secrets and wishes the subconscious will keep,
Born anew from the burdens I carry for you."

Then he turned to the Earth, in its slumbering might,
A cradle of life, where new beginnings unfold.
"Oh, Mother of Ages," he pleaded that night,
His essence entwined with the stories of old.

"You nourish the seedlings with rain from above,
And cradle the roots in your sheltering hold.
Could you take these emotions, this essence of love,
And weave them as stories in petals of gold?

Let sorrow be shadows that nurture the ground,
Where resilient new growth will courageously rise.
Let laughter be sunlight, abundantly found,
Reflecting in dewdrop a thousand bright skies.

Let the fear be the tremor that loosens the soil,
Preparing the earth for a season of change.
Let the triumphs be blossoms, rewarding the toil,
And the lessons of hardship, the wisdom they arrange.

Let these fragments of feeling, these whispers I keep,
Nourish the roots of each blossoming tree,
Symphonies silent, while the world is asleep,
A legacy woven for all eyes to see."

So the old shadow waited, as eons unfurled,
His collection of feelings, a shimmering haze.
He sought transformation for the heart of the world,
Through the moon's gentle dreams or the earth's nurturing ways.

For shadows, though born of the absence of light,
Hold the essence of moments, both bitter and sweet.
And their ultimate purpose, in the deep, silent night,
Is to find their own solace, a meaningful retreat.

To release the faint echoes, the burdens they bear,
And become part of the cycle, forevermore free,
Whispers of feelings on the moonlit night air,
Or stories that bloom in the soil’s rich decree.

- Khushi Kaul