The House of Breath

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In threads of time our lives are spun,

Invisible knots that bind as one,

Guided by whispers, unseen hands,

Fate and dreams in shifting sands.


We share the ancient, sacred air,

With leaf and bird, with mountain’s prayer,

Through every breath, the soul’s refrain,

A echo of creation’s chain.


An elder builds with hope’s own stone,

Brick by prayer, alone, unknown,

Knowing his feet may never grace

The final floor, yet he leaves a trace.


For those who come, for dreams to grow,

He plants the seeds we’ll never know,

His love endures beyond the span,

A silent testament of man.


The child awakens under new skies,

With different tunes and different eyes,

He sees the house, yet not the dream,

Inherited walls, but not the stream.


Rooms filled with silent ache,

Of hopes that time and space forsake,

Two visions in a quiet dance,

Never meeting, yet by chance.


True inheritance is not in gold,

Nor stones, nor deeds of old,

But in the breath that we send forth,

A shared voyage, a sacred oath.


In inner gardens, softly sown,

Where imagination’s seeds are grown,

Breath becomes the bridge we weave,

Connecting hearts, and what we believe.


This is the gift that time endures:

The breath, the hope, the dreams, the cures,

Where imagination’s fire ignites,

And bridges hearts through endless nights.


In this, we find our eternal place,

A universe within our grace,

Where every breath and every start,

Builds the house of the infinite heart.

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