The soul is heavy, a stone upon my chest,
I long to lay it down, to find a place of rest.

An old man drifts, with eyes like fading flame,
Seeking the shadows of dreams that bear no name.

He murmurs of bargains, made under moonlight,
Of stolen joys purchased with the soul’s own bright.
“This weight,” he says, “presses slow, presses low,
But it may vanish—if only you choose to go.”

He offers a peace, soft as a sigh,
Yet the price he asks cannot meet my eye.
Not gold, not gems that dazzle or blind,
But a treasure more secret, beyond time, unconfined.
A tale unspoken, a fire untold,
A spark eternal, that never grows old.