I remember being here.
Hours trapped in the little orange grains of dust.
I recognize these voices, I know their names.
I saw these words replaying in slow motion.

Like in a perpetual motion machine
designed to heal and be healed.
I came to this place after many missed chances
finding my redemption, to see all over again.

Whenever I embrace more flashbacks
from past lives, from past sighs
settling on the broken glass like gentle steam
I feel so quietly completed.

I hide myself in invisible arms
loved many times before,
feeling that I am close to touching my infinity.
Why am I so sure this is the right path?

When I open the boxes of hidden riddles
with keys given by the ethereal glimpses
I know that I return now to the golden core,
to the beginning of everything.

Everytime you give me a new song.
A tune - unheard
Unwinding my tangled nerves.
Beats conjuring through their magical verse
The music of heavenly earth.
Butterflies singing in chorus.
Styled flowers performing the lead.
Under the canopy of the piano leaves.
Farm animals playing the violin
A Sonata of relief.
Moon is the curator-
And trees are on guitar
Our twinkling star playing mandolin
Birds -singing their tweet from afar.
A moment gloomy or a moment of shine.
You take me back to our best musical time

Going through my old notebook.
Page by page,
Line by line,
I found phrases I wrote for you —
Raw but true.
Some lines, which even today,
Brought me back to my rue.

My book was pointing towards
An unsung outcry,
Asking me questions — unsolved,
Poking me to answer: “The why?
Hey! Give it a try!”

I found some paragraphs — meaningless.
They have just lost their tenderness.
Stories of my loved adversaries,
Poems about my daunting memories.

They say my book is petrifying,
For it has some pages with moments —
Electrifying.
It still has some pages empty,
Yellow and old,
Stating and defining my dreams —
The stories that remained untold.

They say it makes you stronger
Like a callus, like a muscle
Turning the soft into something tougher
Hardening the weak, reinforcing the strong

I think what doesn't **** you,
It simply scars you
It is what you learn from your wounds, if anything at all
Which changes you:
To not touch the hot stove
To not reach for the sharp edge
So you are prepared for what comes next.

Decide who you are, every day
Shaping your life like clay
Moldable, resilient
So even a dip or a crack
Can be smoothed over,
Just with some time.

A vase, a sculpture
Anything your heart desires,
The world is your oyster
To fill with platitudes, or cynicisms
To each their own.

But you should know,
It may bring some comfort
That there is paint in the back closet, and
The tools are cleaned in the cupboard
For when you want to repaint,
Reset, retry, rebuild.

It takes time to build habits
Character,
Heart.
But these towers, once built
Will reach the stars
And never fall.

Fighting the good fight
Is not easy, which seems self-explanatory
But there's a reason it is a "fight":
It takes great effort to spin reality
From the thread of your dreams.

Walking the narrow road
You must have faith in the summit.
The path is strewn with sharp sticks and rocks
You will not reach it unharmed.

Limping, hurting, you may even lose your way
The trees seem to grow taller once the sun has set
But if you are moving uphill,
Against the struggle, and the pain,
You are moving in the right direction.

Just because you are doing good
Doesn't mean it will feel easy.
Even the best works require struggle.

In fact,
It is the worst path that is the most enjoyable
The downhill gives the wide sweeping view,
With easy steps worn by many other passerby
Generations who were tempted to leave the narrow path:

Keep fighting the good fight.
Though you will struggle in the dark
Have faith in the last sunrise
You will watch crest over the summit.

I like the way you talk
The way you dress
The way you smile
I like the way you write

When you laugh
Your eyes fill with vapour of life
When you talk
It like listening to a greatest deliverance
When you sing
Its like hearing a river flow

Your a male medusa
Your appearance leaves me frozen
Struck with ecstasy when you smile
Your perfume
A scent so angelic

Partially living
If you leave earth
Declaration of tremor
A world without your existence

While you speak...
I would proudly say pardon
Never shall I speak my mind

So... pardon please

Whose pen commands the garden of her grief?
The vines grow perfect—never choke the gate.
Each thorn arranged, like pain seeks its relief
In blooms too neat to carry real weight.

She sings like sirens housed in mirrored halls,
A practiced ache that never truly breaks.
Each echo wears a mask, each silence stalls—
A thousand deaths, but none that rattle stakes.

Is she the ghost, or just the mourning veil?
A candle lit to cast a gentler shade?
The wax runs clear, the flame too soft to flail—
Like sorrow dressed for show, not meant to fade.