My Lasting Minutes

They ask, “When comes the perfect hour?”
The golden bloom, the ripened flower.
The faultless day, the flawless plan—
Yet time slips softly through our hands.

Like silver sand through narrow glass,
Each grain declares, “I too shall pass.”
No whispered plea, no tightened fist,
Can hold the moments we have missed.

There is no season more divine,
No future hour more yours than mine.
No richer year still yet to start,
Than this brief beating of your heart.

If love is waiting—love today.
Don’t let tomorrow steal away.
If arms can hold, then hold them near;
The finest time is always here.

If words of grace still seek their voice,
Speak now while breath permits the choice.
If tears must fall, then let them flow;
The deepest rivers always know.

This day. This hour. This fleeting breath.
This minute standing still with death.
This second, trembling into gone,
Already dusk where once was dawn.

The future is a painted sky,
The past a bird that’s learned to fly.
But now is earth beneath your feet,
Where time and eternity quietly meet.

So waste no heartbeat weighing when,
For later never speaks to men.
Each grain that falls forever proves
That life is measured not by moves,

But by the hugs we dared to give,
The truth we spoke, the way we live;
The hands we held, the souls we knew,
The faithful things we chose to do.

The hour is not beyond the hill.
It isn’t waiting, standing still.
It lives within this sacred vow:

The finest time…
has always been
now.