The wind passes by, as if it knows me well,
It brushes my cheek with a fleeting spell.
Then drifts away, as if to say:
"Be patient the dawn is not far away."
The world leans close and softly speaks,
Even the stones beneath my feet
Whisper, "You are not alone
You are remembered, though unknown."
I walk a line both thin and deep,
Between the waking and the sleep.
A call I hear, too faint to know,
Yet in my chest, it starts to grow.
My heart—it knows what I do not,
It carries truths I long forgot.
And when I place my hand with care,
It feels as if it's borrowed there.
A guest am I, in flesh confined,
This body hosts a wandering mind.
So kind it is, yet weary grown,
It longs to know when I’ll be gone.
I cherish now my speechless grace,
A silence full of sacred space—
A hush where other voices meet,
Where soul and silence gently speak.
Who hears this speech? Who truly sees
The quiet depths of silences like these?
One dawn, I dreamed a door of light—
It opened wide, and in its height
A voice said simply, "Go back now."
But I had not yet left, somehow.
I am both here and yet elsewhere,
A shadow cast from future air—
An echo not yet spoken true,
A presence split, in me and through.
