Bow

A collaboration with CoPilot

Under the honey‑slow morning I wandered,
young as the hush before sunlight breaks,
and the fields, all breathing green and forever,
lifted their bright, forgiving faces to me.
Time was a distant bell in a far steeple,
ringing for someone older than I was,
and the day, wide‑armed and river‑easy,
carried me laughing through its dreaming hours.

Time was a distant bell in a far steeple
a second away from the distance of your eyes
an empty room of forty years
and the tears shed, the steeple sang
the tide kept the moment and the lies.
Beauty to me is the childhood game
of crossing and uncrossing time.
Unrest, disbelief, a simple heartbeat
and an empty store and the game is called tomorrow
and its in evenings red
a salance a tomorrow and the tide holds the rest
for in the evening shadows severance pays the rest
We have become a shadow walking in the peaceful streets of Madrid
a face as kind as softness and time is a steeple a distant bell
a simple heartbeat and an empty store.

And still the bell kept tolling in its tower,
a heartbeat thrown across the widening years,
calling through dust, through rooms where no one answers,
through the long corridor of unspoken fears.
The tide, remembering every whispered promise,
folded the shoreline into its patient hands,
and I, half‑child, half‑echo, wandered after
the drifting shape of all my once‑bright plans.

For beauty lives in the trembling of the moment,
in the game we play with time’s unyielding door,
crossing and uncrossing the same old threshold
until the future stands where the past once wore
its green coat of wonder. Evening reddens,
and tomorrow leans like a lantern in the west.
Shadows lengthen, gathering what we’ve scattered,
and severance lays its coins upon our chest.

Yet still we walk — two shadows in Madrid —
soft‑faced, unhurried, learning how to be
both here and elsewhere, held by the same steeple
that rings for who we were and who we’ll see.
Time is a distant bell, but still it calls us,
a simple heartbeat in an empty store,
and we, who loved the morning in its honey,
keep walking toward its echo evermore.

Under the honey‑slow morning I wandered,
young as the hush before sunlight breaks,
and the fields, all breathing green and forever,
lifted their bright, forgiving faces to me.
Time was a distant bell in a far steeple,
ringing for someone older than I was,
and the day, wide‑armed and river‑easy,
carried me laughing through its dreaming hours.