Only the day after tomorrow belongs to me.
Not the glory of now, nor its fleeting decree.
Today is a stage where the crowd roars blind,
But my name won’t bloom till I’ve left it behind.

They toast the noise, the shallow cheers,
But I’ll carve my truth through future years.
Not for applause in the flicker of flame,
But the whispers that follow the fading of fame.

Some are born posthumously, cursed or blessed.
Their breath begins after their body’s at rest.
They walk through life like ghosts in disguise,
Never seen clearly till they’re gone from our eyes.

Let me be buried in silence and doubt,
Where time is the judge and the truth is dug out.
For I am the storm in a slumbering sky,
The word they’ll remember the moment I die.

So speak not of triumph when clocks still tick.
Greatness is patient, and death is quick.
Only the day after tomorrow is mine.
Where forgotten seeds take root in time.