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Life as a River of Poems
As the poems flow in thousands, you realize
that you have created very little in the grand tapestry of existence.
Everything distills into rain, sunlight,
the relentless pulse of traffic, the endless cycle of nights and days,
the countless faces that fade into the fabric of years.
Leaving this world will be easier than living in it,
while I type another line, a man plays the piano through the radio waves,
the greatest writers have whispered profound truths in few words,
while the worst have drowned in an ocean of verbosity.
I lose myself in the flow of thoughts, a mystical labyrinth of consciousness,
where each poem is a raindrop,
fallen on the canvas of an ephemeral world.
My poems, like rivers, flow through the valleys of time,
capturing sunlight and the shadows of night,
shaping the fleeting faces of days and years.
I now understand that creation is an art of simplicity,
a line written in a silent night,
while a piano plays in the background of a restless life.
The greatest truths are often hidden in silence,
while empty words can fill endless pages.
I let myself be carried by this river of poems,
seeking the essence in each verse,
knowing that true greatness lies in the power of unspoken words,
in the silent magic of existence,
in the simple beauty of rain and sunlight,
in the quiet between heartbeats,
and in the melancholy of endless nights.

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