The silent hour comes, and when it’s so,
We gaze upon an ever-changing flow
That we can’t comprehend, or quite take in:
But where there are no answers, still we go.

When all the things we thought would give us sway
Within the silent hour slip away,
Then frail and tiny as we are, we stand:
The heritage within, our DNA.

Not every hat’s a crown, nor chair a throne,
And sometimes, weariness strikes heart, and bone,
But do not fear the silent hour’s call:
The stillness has a beauty of its own.