In robes of grey, where shadows fold,
He treads the paths both young and old.
A cosmic book, forever bound,
Chaining of fate, a solemn sound.

The Garden trail is an endless maze,
Forking paths in twilight haze.
Each choice is a thread with whispered line,
Each soul is a star that seeks to shine.

Yet blind he walks, the oldest one,
Who bears the weight of all thats undone.
The book, his anchor, cannot lie,
Its pages hum with every sigh.

He sees what was, what is, and more,
The future's vast, an endless shore.
But never speaks, nor lifts a hand,
For destiny is not to be planned.

And so, he stands where crossroads meet,
Where every life its trial greets.
He watches souls, their burdens bare,
And envies them their fleeting care.

For in his heart, regret takes root,
A hollow ache he can't refute.
He knows the fall, the rise, the end,
Yet cannot warn, nor can he mend.

The garden blooms with every turn,
With lessons lost and dreams that burn.
Its beauty marred by sorrow's hues,
A thousand paths, and none to choose.

Oh, Destiny, with chains so tight,
Your cosmic gaze devoid of light. You bear it all, yet cannot steer,
A silent warden trapped in fear.

Perhaps in time, the paths unwind,
A tale that even he keeps in mind.
Until that day, the garden grows,
Its secrets kept, its truths untold.