Naibei, with fire in her eyes, a victor's endless chase,
Each triumph built a hollow throne, a loveless, empty space.
The trophies lined the lonely hall, a testament to strife,
A Pyrrhic victory, a soul's true cost, a life bereft of life.
One day, beneath a palm tree's sway, a whisper on the breeze,
"True winners rest, from battles won, find solace 'neath the leaves."
She scoffed, "Why rest when there's so much to gain?" the world her battlefield,
But wisdom's voice, it wouldn't wane, a story gently peeled.
An elder sat, with eyes that held the wisdom of the dunes,
And offered dates, their sweetness rich, beneath the afternoon moons.
"These victories," she sagely spoke, "they leave your spirit frail,
You cannot win them all, my dear, true strength from rest is hailed."
Naibei tasted, soft and yielding, a sweetness that did bloom,
A counterpoint to all the striving, a respite from the gloom.
She saw the palms, how tall they stood, yet swayed in gentle ease,
And felt a truth, a calming flood, a wellspring meant to appease.
The dates, a symbol, pure and bright, of building from within,
No victories in endless fight, but peace where she could win.
The fire dimmed, replaced by grace, a strength that softly gleamed,
Naibei, with wisdom in her face, no longer solely schemed.
For winning, when it's all you crave, can leave your spirit sore,
But dates and rest, a lesson grave, can build forevermore.
Comments
Post a Comment