I am an old soul

 I am an old soul that walks through quiet streets,

Where time and dust and silence meet.
In faded books and tarnished rings,
I find the glow in ancient things.

A vinyl’s crackle, soft and slow,
The tales that only elders know.
In weathered wood and leathered seams,
I wander through forgotten dreams.

In the joy and the sorrow of history’s breath,

In the rise and the fall of those who've left,

I journey through pages, vast and deep,

Sketching the whispers that time will keep.

Where others chase the world ahead,
My old soul walks where past is spread.
In every rusted, golden hue,
I see the world forever new.

Under blossoms

 Today, I stood beneath a cherry blossom tree

And for a moment

I was not in this place.

The soft pink petals in the hush of this spring awakening,

Took me somewhere far away.

To a road in India

I remember the Palash: reflecting the scarlet, the kesari, the saffron of the March Sun

Yes, spring arrives there in a differwnt coñor.

While Cherry blossom whispers in soft pink,

The Palash sings loudly as the flame of the forest

One teaches,

That joy can float softly through the air,

The other teaches,

That life can burst from dry, empty patches,

Yet both speak the sane message,

Both tell us that the winter has finished its long story

That somewhere the world is beginning again

Somewhere like a whisper

Somewhere like a flame

As I walk beneath these foreign blooms, carrying the fire of home in memory

Spring reminds me to bloom either in saffron or in pink glory