When I was a child, I had a dream:
nameless souls surrounded me
in a circle of light.

They told me I had to live this life
in pastel shades of grey,
in autumn rains and freezing winters,
with returning hope in the sunlight of spring.

The world is full of wounded branches,
they said:
you will feel where they hurt,
but don’t speak of it.
To be seen in pain
renders them exposed and fragile.

I didn’t listen, I didn’t understand.
I wanted to save the world and myself.

Now I only whisper words softly,
knowing they won’t change the flow of time.

Pain remains pain, and loss remains loss.

I stay for a while in a quiet presence,
watching where the light still flickers,
so they don’t lose hope
when, in their own world,
the glow has faded.

The sun barely rises,
casting a soft glow across the table,
the air thick with the scent of syrup,
a warm, comforting embrace.
On my plate, the pancakes—
fluffy, golden stacks,
like little clouds kissed by the earth,
drizzled with dark, rich chocolate,
a bittersweet sweetness
clinging to the edges like memories.
Whipped cream swirls like soft cotton,
cascading in graceful heaps,
while strawberries, red as a fleeting sunset,
sit nestled atop like the last bloom
before winter’s breath.

A sip of hot chocolate,
dark and creamy,
curling steam rising like the breath of life,
whipped cream crowned with syrup,
a spoonful of warmth
that holds the promise of comfort,
a taste of home in every drop.

Each bite is a surrender,
the world softening,
blurring, fading with every chew.
The sweetness, the richness,
mingling with the faintest hint of finality—
my last meal, my last taste
of earth’s tender gifts.

As I eat, I watch the room,
the last sunrise casting long shadows,
its golden light touching things
that once held so much meaning—
a chair, a book, a photograph.
And I wonder if this moment,
this simple breakfast,
will be the last I ever know,
and if it’s enough
to carry me through
the final breath.