In the quiet breath between my words,
when thought and sound both fade,
a whisper stirs — not born of me,
but planted where the heart was made.

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me,”
the soul repeats, so small, so weak;
each syllable a small step toward Thee,
each tear a truth I dare not speak.

The mind descends into the heart,
the storm within grows still;
Your name tears all passions apart,
and makes room for love to fill.

The prayer becomes every word I say,
a river flowing deep;
it wakes me when I rise to pray,
it guards me when I sleep.

Dejan Živko