We build our dreams on scaffolds high,
In shadowed spires that scrape the sky,
A better dawn, a gilded flame,
Forever just beyond a name.

We trade the breath that warms the now
For plans that Time will disallow.
We barter joy for schemes unmet,
Our tea goes cold, our eyes forget.

A better morrow, whispers Fate,
So hush your heart, be patient, wait.
Yet when it comes in morning’s gold,
We chase another tale we're told.

We stitch our days with the thread of when,
Then we unpick and start again.
The orchard blossoms in our chest,
But we march on, not taking rest.

We chase horizons made of glass,
Reflections in the future's mass,
Too blind to sip the wine we poured,
Too deaf to hear the hush, "You’re more."

Let us then, for once, be bold,
Unpack our laughter, break the mould.
Taste the fig, and feel the rain,
Kiss the sun, release the strain.

Not every dawn must rise with fire,
Not every hour must build the spire.
Sometimes the miracle is this:
A held hand, a breath, a bite, a kiss.

So let us lift our cups today,
And drink the dusk, and dance the clay,
For what is future, but delay,
When now is aching to simply stay.

Often in the hush where mortal voices fail,
And Time in solemn hush begins to drift,
There dwells a grace too subtle to unveil,
A space where sorrow weds the soul to lift.

No clang of hour, no clarion of day,
But something soft, an unseen breath between.
The wish once uttered and what fate may say,
A hush where all that might be grows unseen.

For though the tongue does mutter, “I am still,”
The heart, more wise, has learned to wait with grace;
Not bound by fear nor bent to fated will,
But resting in that sweet, uncertain space.

Through prayer and promise lies a holy seam,
A thread of gold the hurried eye might miss.
Where dreams not rushed may gently learn to dream,
And longing knows the cradle of its bliss.

What fool would scorn the bud not yet bloomed?
Or curse the sky for not yet shedding rain?
The rose does ripen in the shade entombed,
And stars are born in quietude and strain.

So I, in stillness, tend the root of trust,
With palms upturned to catch the morning’s grace.
I give my tears unto the waiting dust,
And find a peace that Time cannot displace.

O speak no more of silence as delay,
It is the womb where destinies take form.
Let others run; I choose the patient way,
Where hope, though slow, emerges deep and warm.

In my poetry, I name this magic, hallowed part:
The space where love prepares to touch the heart.

They tell us time heals everything,
as though hours were surgeons,
as though calendars carried sutures.
But I have learned otherwise.

Time does not erase the wound;
it teaches the body a different gait.
The ache remains, but it dulls its blade,
no longer cutting, only whispering,
a scar that knows the weather
before the sky remembers.

And yet, in the hollow carved by loss,
something else begins to bloom.
Joy creeps in like sunlight
through the cracks of an old wall,
stubborn, insistent,
turning rubble into gardens.

We do not get over grief,
as though it were a fence to vault.
We grow around it,
branches bending wide
to make room for what is unmovable,
roots finding strength in the stone
that would not shift.

This is the quiet alchemy of survival:
pain becomes soil,
tears water the ground,
and out of what cannot be undone,
life, impossibly, flowers.

I love the hush of early mornings,
when the air itself feels unfinished,
like a canvas washed with pale strokes of silver
before the painter dares add colour.

The houses are closed mouths,
the streets unrolled ribbons of silence,
and I walk within it all as if dreaming,
as if the world is a ghost that has paused its breathing
to let me listen to the deeper hum of being.

There is a holiness in these hours,
a sense that the clock has loosened its grip,
that time itself is fragile,
cradled like dew on a blade of grass.

Problems dissolve like shadows before dawn;
the old worries that haunted my sleep
are softened, untied, and left at the threshold.
Here, it is only me, the earth still warm in its slumber,
and the horizon where night surrenders to fire.

The sun’s first fingers reach tenderly,
stroking the edges of the world awake.
The birds, in their hidden chapels of leaves,
tune their voices for a hymn not yet sung.

And I, a single witness, stand astonished,
as though invited to a secret unveiling,
a ceremony meant for no audience at all.
To be the only one awake
is to touch eternity with bare hands,
to know the world not as crowded and restless
but vast, tender, and impossibly alive.

And in that moment,
before the engines stir and the doors slam open,
and the tide of humanity reclaims its noise,
I forget myself, and the weight I carry,
and I belong only to the hush,
the rising light,
and the miracle of another day being born.

It is not the fair-weather friend
who writes their name upon your heart,
but the one who, seeing the storm,
folds their umbrella shut,
choosing wet shoulders beside you
over comfort alone.

Anyone can walk in sunlight,
laugh in the soft meadow,
but it takes a rare and quiet courage
to stand ankle-deep in puddles,
to let the thunder bruise their sky
so you do not face the lightning alone.

Love is not the absence of rain,
it is the gentle hand that finds yours
when the world is unraveling,
the warmth that lingers in cold mist,
the voice that says without words:
“I will not leave you here.”

So bless the drenched, the loyal,
the ones who stayed when staying cost them dryness.
For their devotion shines brighter than any sun,
and their soaked clothes
are the garments of saints.

In English, we say: I’m waiting,
as though time were a tether,
and we the obedient hounds of its pull.
But in poetry, my love, we speak in the hush
between syllables, where even the echo learns restraint.

I am not waiting, I am watering the silence
between a prayer and its reply,
learning the language of stillness,
where promises are not broken
but blossomed in unseen gardens.

I sit beneath the fig tree of not-yet,
where the fruit is ripening in shadows,
and the wind sings psalms
in the patient voice of maybe.

The world says go on,
but I, I have learned to listen
to the rhythm of unopened doors,
to trace the outline of a vow not yet spoken
but trembling like light on the lip of dawn.

Do not mistake my stillness for stagnation,
this is the sacred art of holding,
of becoming the space
in which miracles root quietly.

Here, in the cradle of not-knowing,
where breath meets breathless longing,
I am not stalled, I am aligned
with the holy hush that lives
between a whispered yes
and the thunder of its unfolding.

A house may boast of beams and stone,
Of hearth that glows, of rooms well-known,
Yet walls feel hollow, dreams incomplete,
Without a cat curled near your feet.

For what is home but spirit’s grace?
A velvet shadow, a whiskered face,
The purr that hums through night’s still air,
A silent vow that love is there.

Soft-footed keeper of the flame,
Who answers not when called by name,
Yet chooses, freely, where to rest,
And crowns the humble lap as blest.

Oh, let the grandest halls repeat:
A home is not a home, complete,
Until the heart can gently meet
The quiet cat beside your feet.