When the Village Sleeps

A Quiet Reflection

When the village sleeps,
I notice things I never did when I was young.

In my younger days, nights were filled with plans.
Work. Worries. Tomorrow.
Now, when the house grows quiet,
I sit and listen.

The palm leaves still move in the dark.
They have been there longer than me.
They have seen many people come and go.
They do not hurry.

The yard feels restless,
not because something is wrong,
but because life never fully stops.
Even in silence, it breathes.

The lamp burns low.
The clock keeps ticking.
No one is counting the hours,
yet the hours pass.

At this age, I understand something simple:
life moves on, whether we rush or rest.
When we are young, we run alongside time.
When we are old, we walk behind it, watching.

The village sleeps.
I stay awake—not from worry,
but from awareness.

Time is not loud.
It does not shout.
It only walks, softly,
through every house, including mine.