PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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.

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.