Even if the coffers wane,
still I'd give to ease your strain;
not in gold or grander hues,
but in things that love would choose.
Empty pockets, open hands,
still I build you golden lands;
though the harvests may run dry,
still for you, my soul would fly.
Time, that thief with endless schemes,
I would offer all my dreams;
hours I'd carve from wearied days,
just to walk within your gaze.
If the books grow tall and steep,
I shall guard your fragile sleep;
cradling every restless thought,
till your battles all are fought.
Through the nights of salted bread,
through the streets where hope has fled,
I would stitch each broken seam,
for your sake, for our shared dream.
Coins may clatter far and few,
yet I'd trade them all for you;
not in riches shall love breathe,
but in what the soul can wreathe.
If the skies grow dark and pale,
I shall be your whispered sail;
guiding you through ruthless tides,
offering what fate divides.
When my hours are torn and frayed,
I shall weave the ones you laid;
even as my own light dims,
you shall soar on golden whims.
In the hush of burdened sighs,
I shall hear your unheard cries;
folding each within my chest,
keeping you in sacred rest.
When the streets are paved in stones,
and the heart feels most alone,
I will break my only bread,
lay it where your path is led.
Not a coin, nor silk, nor ring,
can outshine the smallest thing:
giving breath though lungs grow thin,
giving joy though none I win.
Every teardrop that I spend,
every broken, tattered bend,
finds its meaning in your smile,
in the span of just one mile.
If the world shall call me mad,
for the little things I had,
I shall laugh and bear the name,
for your warmth ignites my flame.
I would wear the roughest thread,
starve the hours, and break the bread;
I would sell the skies above,
just to feed your dreams with love.
Even should my ledger fall,
I would barter soul and all;
not for riches, not for pride,
but to see your dreams abide.
In the moments bruised and bleak,
when no silver tongues shall speak,
I will build you towers high,
out of breath, of prayer, of sky.
In the famine of the years,
in the drought of hidden tears,
I shall be your unseen spring,
giving life to everything.
If the road is rough and long,
if the night devours the song,
I shall bleed my golden thread,
till your fields are clothed and fed.
Silent offerings I weave,
in the hours where none believe;
for your future's trembling light,
I will trade my every fight.
Even if the world says no,
even if my pace is slow,
know that in this heart of mine,
all my riches are but thine.