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Poem
In the silent kingdom of lost seasons, where shadows measure the silence,
A day will dawn when you let the burdens of confession fall like leaves,
An old blanket of crushed convictions, your unwavering testimony grows weary.
You will tire with outstretched hands, carrying the proof of your existence,
You will tire of squinting your eyes towards approval-seeking skies, where clouds care not for aspirations,
You will tire of pouring from your tea, the elixir of validations, into foreign cups,
You will tire, a monk in the temple of understanding, longing for an echo that will not come.

And then, under a moon round as a reconciled zero, you will freeze with revelation,
You need not sell the price of your self, script your breath,
Your presence – a poem in itself, does not require recitation to exist.
You will let go of burdens, opinions, and unsigned words,
You will let winds whistle, cleansing the imagined realities of dust,
You will do your work, immersed in the deaf sound of your own beating heart.

You will exist, you will live, you will be on your crucible path of making a difference,
A play performed behind closed doors, for those with open eyes to see,
A sculpture in the infinity of time, where each serrated hammer leaves a star,
Only for eyes that can open the abysses and see the light from the depths.

And when this day comes, emperor over inner realms,
You will leave behind an untraceable trail of steps, felt but unseen, an impact born from silence,
It will no longer be hard, it will no longer be a struggle, just a free dance at the gates of dawn,
Where each breath is an act of art and each moment – a precious stone.

And then... then you will float, you will float like the sound of a bell on seas of mist,
And you will carve your own tone, and write your own music,
And you will row your boat in white, on the waters of a silver lake,
To shores of hearts that understand the rhythm of your steps, and hold value in tomorrow.
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