In shadows cast by twilight's fleeting glow,  
A young man sits, his heart in sorrow's grip.  
The world, a tapestry of muted hues,  
Lies heavy on his soul, a weight of dust.  
Why does the dawn, with all its golden fire,  
Bestow no warmth upon my weary frame?  

He gazes at the stars, those distant worlds,  
And questions whisper soft within his mind.  
What purpose binds my breath to this frail form?  
Does meaning linger in the winds that pass,  
Or is it but a phantom, ever fled?  
The oak that stands against the tempest's rage,  
Does it, too, wonder why it grows, or falls?  

His tears, like rivers, carve their silent paths,  
Each drop a query to the voiceless night.  
Is life a jest, a cruel and fleeting dream,  
Where joy is but a shadow of despair?  
Or does some hidden hand, unseen, unknown,  
Weave threads of fate to guide my faltering steps?  

The moon ascends, indifferent to his pain,  
Its silver light a mirror to his grief.  
He asks, what is this self that bears my name?  
A spark divine, or ash of cosmic chance?  
If I should fade, as morning dew from grass,  
Would echoes of my soul still linger here?  

Yet in his sorrow, something stirs within—  
A fragile hope, a ember yet to die.  
Perhaps the questions, not the answers sought,  
Are what define the heart that dares to feel.  
He rises, slow, beneath the starlit veil,  
And walks, though burdened, toward the unseen dawn.