The future keeps hiding its fog-bound face:
What is severed, what stands in its destined place;
Where it withers away, where it grows by grace,
What is taken, what pours into the empty space.
Let no hands be raised in a pleading cry,
Let no heart turn its hair into silver-grey;
Let no shoulders fold with a weary sigh—
Only let us endure one another’s way.
None can master the tune of prediction’s fiddle:
To see where the branching waters twist and whittle,
Where the path winds on with a guarded riddle,
Where the berry is sweet—or sharp in the middle.
Do not search in half-dreams for the unseen,
Do not mourn the shadow of “might have been.”
Daily labors are simple; they ask not much.
What is left undone soon slips from our touch.
What is Left Undone Soon Slips From Our Touch
© Copyright: Гульнара Элрод Умарбекова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №225121101641
Свидетельство о публикации №225121101641
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