Title

Upon the weary shoulders bent,
The weight of ages presses still;
And yet, to future heights we're sent,
Through iron will and steely skill.
The cities rise where forests fell,
Their spires gleam in the morning light;
But who will hear the soul's faint knell,
Beneath the rush of progress’ might?

The fields where once the children played
Now hum with wires, pulse with speed.
The brook, a memory, has strayed—
Replaced by conduits born of greed.
Our hands, now deft with tools of glass,
Forget the soil, the touch of earth;
As fleeting moments swiftly pass,
We trade them for what progress births.

Oh, fragile spirit, bound in thread,
Of ancient fears and fragile dreams,
Your voice is drowned, your tears unsaid,
By neon lights and endless streams.
The quiet musings of the heart,
Once whispered soft in twilight’s glow,
Are now a lost and ancient art,
Adrift where restless tempests blow.

Yet still, beneath the concrete's weight,
The human soul, though worn, persists;
It wrestles with its changing fate,
And in its weakness, still insists:
To hold a child, to touch a hand,
To find a kindred voice at last—
These truths no future can command,
No fleeting moment can surpass.

So pause, dear traveler, in your stride,
And seek the quiet, sacred streams;
Let not the future’s hurried tide
Destroy the fragile, timeless dreams.
For in the silence dwells the key,
To mend the spirit, torn and tossed—
A spark of grace, eternally,
Where progress ends, and soul is lost.