The desire in one’s heart
burns brightest in youth -
a wild, ungoverned flame
that knows nothing of endings,
only of reaching.
It stretches towards everything -
the far hill, the hidden path,
the question not yet asked.
It lives in restless hands,
in eyes that refuse stillness,
in the quiet insistence of why not.
Desire then is not a choice -
it is a current,
pulling the soul forward
before it has learned the weight of staying.
But time, patient and unhurried,
lays its hand upon the fire.
The blaze softens -
not extinguished,
only changed.
What once leapt skyward
now settles inward,
an ember learning
the language of endurance.
And some will say
it fades -
that age steals its brightness,
that passion loosens its grip.
But they mistake quiet
for absence.
Desire is a shifting thing -
like dandelion seeds
carried on an unseen wind.
It leaves one place
only to root in another.
In youth, it is hunger -
to know, to touch, to become.
In time, it narrows -
not into less,
but into meaning.
No longer everything -
but something.
No longer noise -
but direction.
It turns then
towards understanding,
towards the slow work
of seeing clearly.
And in later days,
when the world grows gentler
at its edges,
desire bends inward once more -
not in retreat,
but in reflection.
It asks quieter questions now:
what has endured?
what remains?
what was all this for?
And still -
still -
the fire lives.
Not as it was,
but as it must be.
A steady glow,
held close against the dark,
no longer seeking to consume,
but to illuminate.
For desire does not leave us -
it changes its shape,
its voice,
its aim.
And even in its softest form,
barely more than warmth
against the ribs,
it whispers the same truth
it always has:
go on.