While the Morning Was Still Mine
While the Morning Was Still Mine
I remember those mornings
in our small village house,
when the sun would slip in
through the half-open window,
like a shy child entering a room,
touching the floor first,
then slowly climbing the walls.
I never thought
Those mornings would end.
The jasmine near the well
would bloom without asking anyone,
its fragrance spreading
like a quiet secret in the air.
By evening, it would fall,
soft, unnoticed, complete.
And still, I believed
There would always be another morning,
another bloom,
another chance.
But life…
Life is not a tree that waits for you.
It is more like the river behind our village,
flowing whether you step into it or not.
I have seen days rise
like golden kites in a clear sky,
only to sink
before I even learned how to hold the string.
I have watched the youth
pass through my hands
like dry sand on a windy afternoon,
grain by grain,
without sound,
without warning.
There was a time
when my heart was like fresh rain on red soil,
warm, alive, ready to grow anything.
Even a small dream
felt like a forest waiting to happen.
Now, I sit quietly,
like an old bench near a bus stand,
watching people come and go,
carrying their beginnings
in hurried footsteps.
If I could speak
to the boy I once was,
I would not give him advice.
I would simply ask,
“Why did you wait
When your heart was already knocking?”
Because chances do not return
like trains on a fixed schedule.
Some leave quietly,
without even a whistle.
And love…
Love is not a festival
That comes every year.
Sometimes it is like a single lamp
lit in a long night,
miss it,
and the darkness feels longer.
So if you are standing
at the edge of a moment,
hesitating like a leaf
afraid to fall,
step.
Live.
Speak.
Hold what comes to you
like the first rain after summer,
fully, without doubt.
For time…
is like a quiet river at night.
While you stand on its banks, unsure,
It carries your moments away,
far beyond where your eyes can follow.
And one day,
You will turn back,
like I do now,
and realize
The light did not wait.
A Reflection on the Poem " While the Morning Was Still Mine"
When I read this poem, I do not feel as if I am reading words.
I feel as if I am sitting beside an old memory… one that has been waiting quietly for years.
It begins so gently.
A small village house.
Morning light enters like a shy child.
Jasmine blooming near a well.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud.
And yet… everything important is already there.
Because life, in its most meaningful form, never arrives with noise.
It comes softly, like light on a wall, like fragrance in the air.
What touches me deeply is this innocence, the belief that there will always be more time.
Another morning.
Another bloom.
Another chance.
How easily we believe this when we are young.
You wake up, and the day is waiting.
You dream, and the future feels endless.
You delay, and it feels harmless.
But slowly… almost invisibly…
the poem shifts.
The river appears.
And with it comes truth.
Life does not pause for our hesitation. It flows, whether we step forward or stand still.
The images in the poem stay with you.
Days like kites you could not hold.
Youth like sand slipping through fingers.
A heart once like wet soil, ready to grow anything.
These are not just metaphors.
They are quiet confessions.
They speak of something we all carry,
moments we did not take,
words we did not say,
lives we almost lived.
And then comes the most painful part.
Not regret shouted loudly…
but regret whispered softly.
An old man does not scold his younger self.
He does not preach.
He does not explain.
He asks only one question:
“Why did you wait… when your heart was already calling?”
That question lingers.
Because somewhere, in some corner of our own lives,
we have done the same.
The poem does not stop at regret.
It gently turns toward awakening.
It tells you, without forcing, without fear,
Step.
Live.
Speak.
Not tomorrow.
Not when everything feels perfect.
But now… while the moment is still warm.
A moment is not lost when time passes. It is lost when we do not enter it.
The ending is quiet… and heavy.
Time becomes a river at night.
Not loud. Not rushing.
Just moving… carrying everything with it.
And you stand there,
like many of us do,
thinking, hesitating, waiting.
Until one day you turn back
and see not what you lived,
But what has already gone.
This poem, to me, is not about time.
It is about courage.
The courage to step into your own life
before it quietly moves beyond you.
Because in the end,
The tragedy is not that time passes.
The tragedy is that
We were present… and still did not live.