Youth is wasted on the young they say,
who chase the dawn and sleep through day,
with time enough to blaze and burn,
yet wisdom too slow to discern.

They race through gardens, wild and free,
past fleeting blooms they barely see,
each petal bright, each moment rare,
left in the wake of mere reckless air.

To grasp the gold with steady hand,
to feel the soil, to understand—
it comes too late, when strength has waned,
and time is left, not to be attained.

But maybe youth, in all its haste,
is not a thing meant to be traced.
It lives in leaps, in fervent tries,
in burning hearts and open skies.

For even if it slips away,
it lights up the paths we choose today,
and leaves a spark, for the wise to find,
still warm within a younger mind.