Come December, and the end of the year is nigh
and though the air is dry and warm
the sky glimmers, shimmers with cloudy gray
and the waning sunlight casts long shadows
upon the cold blue sea

How many times have I come this way?
Down this dry and dusty concrete road
black with ashes of memories
and the soot of discarded dreams
past the island mirage, floating like a city of clouds on the sea
unreachable yet beckoning

It is not regret
for how do you regret what never came to pass?
Just this terrible weariness
the despair of the lost and forsaken
I may wander the world for a hundred years
and never find the right paths
trapped in these labyrinthine circles
I can hear your voice, and yet never come nearer

How many years must a man wait
before accepting that the answer is “No,” and “Never!”
before turning aside from his futile errand
to face the darkness
and accept his fate?