Shall

Shall we wander where the mist clings low,
through lanes of hawthorn where the blackbirds sing?
Shall we trace the river’s silver glow,
and let the dawn’s soft light our spirits bring?

Shall we sit beside the old oak’s shade,
its roots entwined with centuries of stone?
Shall we hear the wind through leaves that sway,
a quiet hymn that we have known?

Shall we promise, in the hush of night,
to chase the dreams that flicker like a flare?
Shall we hold each hope, both dark and bright,
and know that love, like time, is always there?

Shall we, when years have etched their line,
still find the wonder in a simple sigh?
For in the word that binds our design,
we live— we shall— we never truly die.