There are no clocks here.
Only the swaying of a breeze
that doesn't ask about time
or measure it.
Waiting doesn't announce itself, it
settles.
Like an empty chair
that never becomes covered in dust
because someone,
someday,
will use it.
And no matter how many times
the horizon shrinks,
how many afternoons fold
like damp paper.
I stay.
Not because I know when,
but because I know
that.
Because there is a light
that, even without being turned on,
already shines.
And a sound
that hasn't been born,
but already touches my chest.
It's not faith.
It's something more stubborn.
Softer.
Like water on stone,
like moss in a crack,
like the whisper
of something that still has no form
but does hold promise.
Waiting isn't wasting time,
it's giving it away.
And I give it,
day after day,
like someone who waters dry land,
knowing that the seed doesn't sleep:
it's only learning
when to sprout.
