The Bittersweet Paradox

On sleepless nights, down winter's road, A lonely knight in silence strode. He raised his drink, a golden hue, And bellowed deep, as sorrow grew. A sudden quake—his soul it stirred, And through the haze, strange voices heard. He counted souls with trembling hand, Each one like grains of dying sand. The night grew cold, the stars grew dim, No cheer nor warmth remained for him. But lo! A ferryman appeared— With staff in hand, four holes it speared. Aghast, the knight beheld his face, Time had worn it—left no trace Of youth or mirth, just aching bones, A mirror held to silent groans. And then his glass—now slick with mold, Slipped from his hand; he felt so old. “Au revoir,” the stranger sighed, To charred-eyed knight, whose heart had cried. Then toward a light from darkened skies, He went—no fear, no need for guise. A star, perhaps, or something more, A beacon to a distant shore. And thus the tale, now soft and thin: A knight finds peace from strife within. For he may rest, his journey done— A life well lived, a race well run.