Do not rewrite the past.
No hand can erase
what time has carved
in wounded skin.

Let your oldest notebook
inscribe the first line
of a new tale —
written in fresh tears
and the sweat
of becoming
a future still unfolding.

Forever, my little one.
From my most sincere love,
I long to give you the world —
my greatest privilege
is to witness your becoming
a woman like no other.

From the seeds I once gathered,
a garden of possibilities
shall bloom within you.
In a soil rich with courage,
where once there were thorns,
flowers will blossom,
bringing color to the lives
of all around you.

Along your path,
wisdom will be your guide.
You will not repeat my stumbles.
With no illusions or masks,
you will brave the snares of life,
and grow even greater.
Believe this:
greatness awaits you.

I see my reflection in your eyes:
stronger, more assured,
eternal in your humility and grace.
In your smile, I lose myself,
only to find you once again.

I will always be by your side,
to comfort you in uncertainty.
We will laugh together —
from the simplest joys
to the necessary trials,
already overcome
by the courage
of the brave one within you.
And we will celebrate
every one of your victories —
forever,
one soul, together.

Our dream,
an eternal spring.
And on awakening, a glimpse
of days ever gray
and lies of a sun
that never shows itself.

The nightmare of living,
corroded by days
that are not ours.

A being without essence—
like plastic flowers
in a golden vase,
handmade.

Insipid victories:
false perfumes
that barely linger,
their scent soon sours.

Be an anonymous artist,
shaping the life of dreams.
And may your art
suffice in itself,
so you never bow
against your truest self.

May your will dispel
the dark clouds,
and may your days
become, at last,
always spring.

Those who choose to live
survive by daring themselves.
New sorrows, new triumphs…
old loves, and a self
that remains sincere
in a life in becoming.
And in the end,
what is His
shall also be ours,
as one.

Hope lies within reach
of those who, alone,
cross their own gates
on the highest mountains —
accessible only within.

Our journey,
a field to be cleared
with bare hands.
Calluses hold stories,
and weeds left uncut
grow wild,
until they cover the soul.

We are rescued
with every stumble.
And upon reaching the summit,
our sorrows
dissolve into the clouds.
Beneath the sunlight,
we reveal ourselves, at last,
for the very first time.

You are not a product,
nor is your work.
If you are to be consumed,
let it be by your own hunger
to be who you are.

The soul’s inaction
is the price we pay
for failing to nourish
our own blooming —
even beneath sunlight,
seeds remain,
never a garden.