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Poem

Dirty windows and broken hearts, like books left open on the table,
On silent streets where morning and night share their last pages,
A generation of brave souls, seeking light between the lines of the day,
Heavy judgments like bookmarks forgotten among memories.
In the game of life, the dice are thoughts cast on the blank page,
I, a reader of fate, dance on the edges of my verses,
Time flows like a river of metaphors through the chapters of the past,
Choices are phrases of a future written in invisible ink.
Pleasure and risk, two notes in a melody of curiosity,
The serpent watches, its eyes like two open parentheses in the night,
Everything is a game without rules, a story writing itself at every dawn,
I try to find my place among the dreams settling quietly on the shelf.
Happiness is a morning poem, sadness a footnote,
But my heart, though broken, beats like a metronome of hope,
I defy time, living on the edge of an endless page,
Each moment a verse added to the book of my days.
I let myself be carried by the wave of a present unfolding page by page,
With a soul full of melancholy and humor,
I seek answers in the silence of a world whispering its tales,
But I will continue to write, to read, to love,
Even when all seems lost,
In this game of life, I will remain a poet to the end.

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