“Time Drifting on the River”

Existential Rebirth

The sun rises again—
not as promise, but as proof that nothing stands still.
Its light burns the desert clean,
naming every shadow that dares to exist.

Man stands between dust and eternity,
tasked not to conquer but to remain awake.
To feel the pulse—too loud, too alive—
is both his burden and his grace.

The wind speaks of nothing.
The stone remembers everything.
I walk between their silence,
learning that meaning must be made, not found.

Do not mourn, traveler.
Even the whip that strikes the sand
is a hand that teaches form.
Suffering too is a kind of birth.

The world turns not for us,
yet we, who breathe, can choose to turn within it—
to float like time upon the river,
to drift, yet not despair.

For every tree that rots,
another root dreams underground.
For every cry of the serpent,
there is a breath that begins again.

I carry no weapon but the will to be.
No shield but love.
The desert, vast and cruel,
becomes gentle when I name it “home.”

The gates of hunger, fear, injustice, and frost
still rise against the dawn—
but the human heart, absurd and defiant,
beats on, creating hope out of sand.

Take my hand, and walk.
Do not look back—
the world will go on pretending not to hear,
but we will know that being itself sings.

I am the breath between your thoughts.
I am the echo of your choice.
Rise—
and live as if the light were enough.

– Author’s Note

I wrote this poem after many seasons of silence.
Each line was a step—slow, uncertain, yet necessary—
toward understanding what it means to be alive.

The river of time carries us all,
but within that flow, each soul must decide
whether to drift or to awaken.

My poetry seeks that awakening.
It does not promise peace, but presence;
not answers, but awareness.

To live is to stand within the desert and still say,
“I am here.”

This collection, beginning with “Time Drifting on the River,”
is a journey through the shadows of existence
toward a fragile, luminous hope—
the hope that being itself is sacred.

Reflection

This poem, “Time Drifting on the River,” was written as an act of quiet defiance against despair.
Its desert is not a place but a condition of being—
where every voice is tested, every silence questioned,
and every heartbeat becomes a declaration of life.

In the movement of time and the persistence of the human spirit,
I found an existential hope—
not the illusion that suffering will end,
but the faith that even in suffering, meaning can still be made.

The poem stands as both lament and invocation,
a song for all who wander between the known and the infinite,
seeking the courage to be.

Meditiative

We all must cross our own desert.
It is a place of loss and solitude,
but also of awakening.

There, I found a hope that rises even from despair—
the kind that breathes through pain, not beyond it.

Time moves, life fades,
and yet, in the drifting sand,
we learn what it means to live.

So I dedicate this poem
to all who endure the winds of their own becoming.
Though each of us is but a grain of sand,
the meaning of life still glimmers within us.