The Slow Ascend of Winter - Arko Ashfaque

 

The Slow Ascend of Winter

- Arko Ashfaque 

Youth lies behind—a vanished shore,

Its music faint on memory's breeze;

I do not chase those waves no more,

But watch them break with quiet ease.

The limbs that once outran the sun

Now yield to time’s more cautious gait;

Yet what I lose in speed or run,

I gain in knowing how to wait.

The mirror bears a kindly thief,

Stealing color, adding line;

But in each fold, I find belief—

That even loss can still refine.

The face I wore when dreams were young

Still lingers in remembered flame;

A song once wild and sweetly sung—

Now whispered by a gentler name.

The fire of youth was fierce and fast,

It lit the sky, consumed the air;

But fires meant not always to last

Are kindled now with deeper care.

I've seen the arc of passion’s flight,

The folly of the urgent voice;

And now I find my great delight

In moments quiet by their choice.

Where once I fought to carve my name

Upon the loud and shifting stone,

I’ve learned that legacy and fame

Are seeds that often bloom alone.

Love no longer wears disguise—

No thrill of chase, no hunger’s mask;

But tender looks and knowing eyes

That speak without the need to ask.

Children rise where I have stood,

And I, a pillar they don’t see,

Smile as they chase what once was good

Enough to build the world for me.

Books once read to prove a point

Now rest with wisdom on my shelf;

And when I write, I don't anoint—

I write to know a truer self.

Pain, once a foe I could not name,

Now walks beside me like a friend;

It taught me loss, it carved my frame,

But brought me closer to the end.

Yet not the end in fear or grief,

But in the sense of being whole;

Each wrinkle, scar, and falling leaf

A stanza in the life of soul.

Friends have passed, their voices fade,

Their chairs sit silent in my mind;

But oh, the joy of roads we made

Still walks behind me, soft and kind.

The taste of tea, the breath of dawn,

The child who asks the silliest thing—

These now outweigh the battles won,

The crowns I wore, the songs I’d sing.

I do not envy youth its fire,

Nor mourn the strength I cannot keep;

For what the heart begins to tire,

The spirit gathers while I sleep.

Each day I rise with slower care,

Yet gratitude now lights the room;

And though the spring has thinned my hair,

It cannot touch what’s learned to bloom.

I speak less now, but listen more,

And when I speak, I mean each word;

I’ve found that truth, in days of yore,

Was often felt and seldom heard.

The world is not as wide, perhaps—

But wider in the ways that count;

Less mountain peaks, more shaded maps,

More reverence for each small fount.

Regret? Of course. We all have ghosts—

Some locked away, some dearly missed;

But even those whom I lost most

Have touched me more than they exist.

If youth is light that blinds and thrills,

Then age is dusk with amber hue;

The sky still holds the breath that fills,

But filters all in gentler view.

I’ve danced, I’ve fought, I’ve lost, I’ve prayed—

And here I am, still at the door;

Not quite within the final shade,

But further than I was before.

Let those behind me chase and climb,

Let them declare, revolt, believe;

I’ll tend the garden left by time,

And bless the things I need not grieve.

The clock may tick with louder tone,

And twilight cast its longer shade;

But I have learned I’m not alone—

Just further down the road I made.

So let the hands grow stiff with years,

Let voices falter, backs grow bowed;

Within me burns a flame that clears—

The soul that stands, though flesh is cowed.

Old age is not a closing wall,

But opening into vaster skies;

Where all I thought too small, too small—

Now rises where the spirit flies.

And when the end shall come at last,

Not with a scream, but softest sigh;

I’ll smile upon the life that passed,

And gently lay my youth to die.