Aja

From the valley of a lone Victor, Hope bloomed on mornings dew, Carrying promises of a brighter sun, In echoes of joy and persistent smile. Here he comes, draped In night’s shroud , Messenger of silent, gusty winds, Challenging the ‘criers to a falsehood as Gossips' tales, recounted long. Beneath motherhood's heavy song, Tears freeze in pain's tender gaze, Bearing burdens, frail long lays, In ceaseless lays, finding no solace. The reaper's pact, at dawn's first light, His price, a debt, oft collected, In twilight's shade, no trace in sight, For dawn alone, his scythe erected. Hope, a melody hauntingly sweet, Fading to shadows with each passing lay, Echoes lingering , a symphony complete, At thresholds, betraying their way. Strength spent in fields of toil, Make rue of Harvests reaped in thorns, the farmer returns with his aging hoe, In cycles old, he pursues another toil.