When the Wheel Will Have Rolled Miles

When the wheel will have rolled miles, When wrinkles shall deck the brow, The thoughts of today shall linger Behind the door of the mind. What place do the cliffs hold, When the mountains are no more? To what heights can the eagle fly, If its wings are too frail? How do the hailstones coalesce, When rain is no more? Why does the bird sing, When spring is past by? The leaves would wear out, The stories would end, But the spirited mind shall live; Clinging to the scent of the erstwhile Spring, The bowed shoulder shall thrive. Cues of immaculate tresses Shall outdo the course of life, But within, shall glow like the lava red, The desire to live on. When words shall fail, When the fingers shall tremble, When folds shall wreck the skin, The blood of life shall flow on still. But when the singing bird shall die, When the eagle can no more fly, Wake up, high-spirited mind! Live your life again; With whatever left of yourself, Stand upright, unbowed to the pillars of the Dark! O depressed soul, the tresses are not yet white! Look into the mirror And hark at the gleam in those eyes! Don’t they speak of life? I, the youth speaks Knowing not your condition, Knowing not your pains. My words are but fruitless: Like the sterile flower that but blooms, Oblivious to its age.