The Response to the Lament

You say your dreams have shattered, that no song nor melody remains—
But was the harp ever in your hands, or had your spirit lost its strains?

You longed for spring to bloom, yet feared the thorn’s embrace—
Who told you gardens come to be without a single trace of pain or grace?

What did you take this world to be? A playground of unbroken glee?
This universe is the art of sorrow, and life—a craft of constancy.

You begged for light, yet closed your eyes,
You stood withdrawn, while calling the world a place where dreaming dies.

There was a time you burned—a passion, a sacred flame—
Now, you dwell in shadows, a dimmed and weary name.

Nature was never silent; it sang—but you heard not its voice,
In leaves, in waters, in moving air—God echoed in every choice!

Time offered you chances; at each turn, a way was laid—
Yet now you cry of stolen dreams, where you yourself had strayed?

The truth, O poet of aching thought, is not so deeply veiled—
You're at odds with your very self; the mirror you blame has not failed.

You wish the world to change its way, but you remain the same—
This is not the law of nature—it is but stubbornness, clothed in dream's name.

Become, first, the light you seek—the secret, the awakened flame—
And witness, in your very breath, how the music reclaims your name!

Time is still within your grasp, and nature still your friend—
But the price is this: you must awaken—become a new will, a vibrant trend!