Now that they are written,
each fragment in its place,
the weight I carried for so long
has slipped away.

Words, mirrors of the soul,
linger on this page,
pressed like a seal,
marking the moment,
pouring out hope and faith.

Words,
woven like a spider’s web
in the darkness of my heart,
stir and tremble,
whisper like a restless stream,
fully alive,
waiting for their keeper to release them,
to weave a quiet longing,
like a painting on the wall—
a fleeting touch of comfort.

Green grass,
the scent and colors of wildflowers,
and on the face, a smile that remembers springtimes
while the sun gently caresses them
and bathes them in its warmth.

White daisies
dance proudly in the breeze
as if to say:
we are happy just as we are,
and need nothing more.

Summer’s heat weaves its fingers
and adds a shade of yellow
to the canvas of beautiful plants,
excessive and merciless,
while they beg for the last drops of rain.

Something has grown quiet.
Looking at those once-lovely blades of grass
I now see
an invisible thread that binds us
in the whirlpool of memories.
At times, a weary smile appears,
accompanied by restless longing.

In the night I hear
the wind swaying the branches,
tangling my hair,
bending the shadows to dance
their quiet dance.

My cries
fall silent for a moment,
as if I am far away
from myself
and from the world.

In the heart of darkness
a gentle calm is born,
soft and still,
as if the sky
in all its endlessness
is taking me under its wing.