If time were a song

If time were a song,
it would begin in the breath,
the one you took
before you were born.

It would move in your bones
before your ears could hear it.
Not a beat, but a hush
like the heart of your mother
when you were still inside her.

If time were a song,
a detour
would be a harmony
you didn’t expect to love.

And the rests
would be history.

It would sound like
walking through wet grass in the morning,
like afternoon whistles and evening wings,
like your name
spoken by someone
who loves you
without needing to explain.

If time were a song,
you wouldn’t chase it.
You’d sway.
You’d listen more than speak.
You’d cry at the quiet parts,
and laugh where the rhythm lifts you.

It would be sung
in a language no one taught you,
but everyone remembers.

And even when it ends,
it wouldn’t…

So,

In my chambers,
I listen to Time.

Not as seconds or hours,
but as song.
The one I sang as a child
before the bus took me from home.

And as I listen,
I begin to feel what has always been:
a heart that waves,
a harp that holds.

And now I know.

I would give myself away,
completely,
only to find union
within myself again.

For the losing is the finding.
The gift is the giving.
The circle always knows how to close.

I would banish my memory
to a distant place,
then throw away the map,
knowing it can never be lost,
because I carry the compass
inside my own becoming.

I would climb alone.
Not to escape,
but to encounter.
Not to conquer,
but to see the beauty
I’ve always suspected
lived within me.

And I would do it forever.
Not for the destination.
Not for applause.
But for the child.