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Poem

Some evenings weigh heavily on the shoulders of the soul,
the sunset spills like tea dripping onto the floor of time,
and the birds, once lively metaphors of playful freedom,
now seem to march toward an unknown horizon –
the abyss of my room is silent – they no longer sing serenades to me,
or perhaps I have simply forgotten how to listen to their whispers when they are near.
I sit in a room with walls covered in pages,
adorned with tarot cards meant to shape my destiny,
yet none of them know my name, and still, I've filled my heart with them.
I read, assimilate, and rush through until my bones ache from borrowed ambitions,
and still, I cannot tell if it's growth or just a silence slowly erasing me.
Something is folded deep within my chest,
not sadness or lack of hope, nor complete weariness,
just a question that refuses to be spoken in clear words.
Something like: am I building a destiny or abandoning the one I had!?
as if I'm running toward a future
and away from myself at the same time – a paradox that holds me captive.
I used to name the clouds passing through the sky,
to trace dreams with the feathers of sparrows,
but now sunsets pass like a to-do list,
even the birds become a murmur I no longer find piercing.
Not because it's no longer beautiful or melodic,
but because I don't know if I still belong to that world full of wonders.
The world applauds those who reach the peaks,
but no one sees the silent constellation that gradually stops watching the starry sky
because it reminds me of the things I no longer have time to feel.
Everyone talks about the finish line that shines in the distance,
but no one asks what we lose on the way there.

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