The air I breath is older than my age

 The air I breathe is older than my years,

it drifts through mountains, rivers, and valleys,

a silent traveler carrying stories untold,

the whispers of dawn, the sighs of twilight,

the prayers of generations wrapped in wind.

It enters me softly, unnoticed, unseen,

yet it is my first companion, my quiet lifeline,

a thread weaving body to spirit,

anchoring me gently to this fragile world.

I never ask it to stay, yet it lingers,

faithful as a shadow, patient as the sky.

The air I breathe has touched distant shores,

kissed the blossoms in spring’s gentle embrace,

danced with fireflies in summer nights,

and brushed the frost from winter’s pale lips.

It knows the laughter of children at play,

and the aching sighs of those who grieve.

Sometimes it tastes of rain, heavy and kind,

sometimes of smoke, sharp and sorrowful,

sometimes of pine and earth, pure as prayer,

reminding me that all things are borrowed,

and nothing remains unchanged.

In each breath, I receive a gift:

life renewed, heartbeat sustained,

a rhythm older than memory itself.

How rare it is, this treasure I ignore,

this invisible river flowing through me,

uniting me with the bird in the sky,

the leaf trembling on its branch,

the wanderer on a dusty road.

The air I breathe is not mine alone—

it is shared, given, returned again,

a circle unbroken, vast and eternal.

So I inhale with gratitude, exhale with grace,

knowing each breath is a silent blessing,

a hymn to existence, fragile yet fierce,

the quiet miracle that keeps me alive.