Some things, once given,
do not belong to time.
They sink quietly
beneath the soil of years,
like a seed beneath winter—
unseen,
yet holding its green secret
against the cold.
Days pass.
Seasons loosen
their colours from the trees.
Roads gather dust.
Footprints disappear
under rain and wind.
Still, something remains—
a faint light
at the edge of memory,
refraining to melt out.
To keep faith
is sometimes
to walk through rain
towards a door
that may no longer open;
to carry a small flame
through a landscape of darkness
as once,
someone trusted its warmth.
Years may alter
the shape of everything.
Rivers leave their banks.
Houses fall silent.
Old paths vanish
beneath the grass.
Yet what was entrusted
can still be carried—
quietly,
without witness,
without reward.
And when, at last,
the journey ends,
there is no thunder,
no trumpet in the sky—
only the quiet hanging
of a long-locked door
opening from within,
and a forgotten lamp
lifting its flame
as though it had been waiting
all these years
for the shadow
that promised
to return.
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