“Resting as if the world outside has ceased to call—
As if there’s nothing to do but breathe, to simply be.
Who are we, then, if not this?
Not the endless striving, nor the restless wave of tasks.
We have, perhaps, become something more—
A peaceful being, drifting free from the human race,
Letting go of the doings that once tethered us.”

What if we all carried our lives in a backpack,
The way weary travelers do,
Waiting in queues for hours
To reunite with loved ones,
Only to leave with a lingering sadness,
After a brief gathering that only partly fills the emptiness
Of a mother grown old,
Aged by her children becoming adults,
Meeting at gate 1F,
Where time is both a journey and a reminder.

Through lonely halls of youthful pain,
She danced her steps in hope’s refrain.
Each plié, a whispered plea,
'Let this be my sanctuary.'