What is the meaning hidden in our days,
The purpose drawn from every breath we take?
It stirs within, elusive, faintly known,
Yet always sought by hearts that ache to find.
In moments small, the answer seems to rest—
A fleeting joy, a laugh, a whispered word,
Or in the silent spaces in between,
Where thought alone can wander, free to dream.
Perhaps it's found in love that we bestow,
In hands we hold, in lives we choose to shape,
Or in the time we give to someone else,
A gift of self that never seeks return.
And yet, it might be more than what we give—
It could reside in all that we endure,
In pain, in loss, in struggle and in hope,
Where scars become the markers of our path.
The meaning shifts, as seasons bend and turn,
Elusive as the wind across the fields,
Yet still we chase, with hearts that never tire,
Believing that the search itself is life.
