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Poem
Under the pensive skies, where stars weave dreams,
In the depth of daily existence that seems constrained,
Do not lament the poverty of the day, do not condemn it;
Tell yourself that you are not poet enough to unveil its riches,
For to the creator, there is never poverty, nor indifferent places.
In the vastness of each moment, where time barely breathes,
Hidden treasures of secret mornings lie,
Which only a soul thirsty for magic, filled with dreams and longing,
Can call to life from the abyss of endless silences.
Every dawn is a blank canvas, every sunset an unfinished story,
Where the colors of your emotions await to be blended,
To paint the frescoes of the boundless values of existence,
But it must be the poet within you who sees the ink hidden in the dark.
In every blade of grass lies a concealed world,
In every whisper of the tree, an unspoken symphony,
In the raindrops, the inner skies reflect,
But you must have the eyes of a poet to discern these treasures in the everyday.
For poverty is not of the moment, but of the soul that does not sing,
Wealth is found where imagination meets reality,
Where spirituality intertwines with the mundane,
And the poet discovers magic in the most humble corners of life.
The soul that does not elevate, that is the one poor,
The day is merely a stage where we can play our dreams,
Every place, no matter how simple, can be a palace,
For the one who sees beyond the veil of appearances.
In the cracks of walls and in the silence of deserted nights,
The angels of inspiration hide, awaiting your call,
With every word spoken, with every thought transformed,
Poetry weaves its mantle over the naked reality.
In the chaos of the day and in the serenity of eternity,
The poet can create universes from dust and light,
And the soul that sings will never know poverty,
For to the creator, every moment is a window to infinity.
And you, wandering through the corridors of daily life,
Find your essence in the smallest details,
Transform the ashes of reality into spiritual gold,
For in every day, hidden in the shadows, are untold miracles.
Through the veils of time, where evening meets morning,
In a cosmic dance of constellations and shadows,
The poet discovers meaning in the deep silence of the heart,
Borrowing from the universe the essence of infinity.
Thus, under the darkened skies and golden dawns,
The poet's soul rises, singing in the cosmic silence,
Discovering its own creation in every corner of the world,
An eternal transformation, from mundane to sublime, from darkness to light.
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