He walks on shores and forest trails

and ponders memories' details

passing by shells and rocks alike

perhaps they see a man who's failed

he ambles on—his endless hike

A wave may slosh over his toes

felled leaves may rustle past his nose

but all the while he's lost within

never to find his golden rose

such paths of loss seem such a sin

I wrote this poem in the 15th century Spanish form called a copla real, a decastich consisting of two quintillas.