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Personal Note:

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Poem

I was young back then—
When chirruping birds sang lullabies,
Not just morning songs, but wings of peace
fluttering through a boy’s sleepy eyes.
The bark of a dog would freeze my feet,
Thunder sent me digging deep beneath blankets,
And my name on a teacher’s tongue
Felt like a storm I could never outrun.
The thump of a chopper in the sky
Made me think of war, or heroes, or gods—
A world beyond mine, loud and wide.
Each sound etched itself in my little chest,
Where fear and wonder wrestled for rest.
Now I stand in the thicket of years—
Not old yet, but no longer young.
My knees don’t bend like they used to,
But my mind still runs faster than breath.
The birds still sing, but I rarely listen.
The dog still barks, but I don’t flinch.
Thunder rolls, and I count seconds calmly.
The teacher’s gone—now I bear the name others call.
In youth, I feared the unknown.
In middle age, I fear forgetting what I once knew.
I used to dream of castles and conquests—
Now I think of roots, not wings.
Now I value the silence between sounds,
The breath between storms.
The steady tick of time’s quiet drum
Over the crash of a fleeting thrill.
I ask not for answers anymore,
But for time—to make peace with questions.
To walk my days with open hands,
To listen more than I speak,
To watch without needing to capture,
To live without needing to prove.
Yes, I was young back then.
But now, in the middle of the story,
I begin to see what the ending asks of me:
Not glory, but grace.
Not noise, but nuance.
Not more years, but more presence in each one...

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