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The truth is that we are always children, lost in the labyrinth of time with maps drawn from the dreams of the night,
Children with scraped knees from life's falls, with veins like the roots of ancient trees piercing the earth,
Our scars are medals of survival, and age spots are constellations drawn on skin stretched like the sky,
Yet beneath it all, we are the same children, clinging to life with nails dug into the edge of time,
Because we are life itself, a chorus of laughter and tears dancing on the wings of the unending wind.
We remember the days when we ran across endless fields, gathering sunbeams like wildflowers,
When the wind, our accomplice, whispered forgotten stories, and the clouds painted dreams on the clear sky,
Now, under the sky of shadows, we seek the same fragments of light, like fireflies caught in glass jars,
We try to catch in our palms the moments that slipped through our fingers like sand from a broken hourglass,
And in every heartbeat, we feel the unquenchable desire to live, to be, to transform into an eternal story.
In the silence of the night, when the moon casts its silver veil over the world like a mysterious shroud,
We return to ourselves, to the children we were and still are, dancing on the edge of dreams,
We understand that time cannot take our spirit, cannot extinguish the flame that burns within our chests,
Because we are life, in every step, in every breath, an endless song of the universe,
An endless story written on the skin of the cosmos, an eternal whisper floating on the wings of the wind.

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