TheParagon

I’ve walked through centuries
Without leaving my name.
The wind knows me ...
Not as a man, but as a question
Etched into the bark
Of a tree that no longer stands.

There are pages
Buried beneath the soil,
Written in a language
Only silence remembers.
Each word, a breath
That never reached the mouth.
Each line, a thread
Woven toward something sacred.

I’m not looking for permanence.
I’m looking for the moment
When grief softens,
When memory returns
Not to haunt,
But to hold.

My ancestors speak
In the rustle of leaves,
In the hush before rain,
In the way stars linger
When asked about endings.

I’ve loved
Without needing to possess.
I’ve mourned
Without forgetting.
I’ve built altars
From broken seasons
And lit them
With the last light
Of a fading day.

This is my offering:
Not a monument,
But a way of remembering...
A quiet ritual
That turns sorrow
Into seed.

Let them read it.
Let them feel the weight
Of what was never said.
Let them know
Even silence
Has a lineage.