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In the silence of the night, when the moon weaves its silver veil over the world,
the word &quot;love&quot; floats like an ancient perfume,
spilling from songs and painting itself on the enchanted canvas of dreams,
whispered like a prayer lost in the breeze of the quiet wind.
They tell us that love is the light that keeps hearts warm like hidden suns,
the invisible glue between souls, the reason we continue to dream,
the reason we leave, searching for other constellations in the dark.
But I... I grew up seeing love as a star that never rises,
I saw broken plates, not breakfasts brought with the smile of dawn,
raised voices, not hands reaching to wipe tears like summer rain,
I saw people living together but separated by unseen oceans.
What does love truly ask, under its cloak of mystery and desire?
I have learned that love wears changing masks like the seasons,
and sometimes... none of them are more real than a passing dream.
Is love a living flame or just the smoke of a lost memory?
A dream we chase as we fall from the heavens,
bleeding from our wings but hoping to touch the ground gently.
They tell us that love is rare, but when it's real, it's the entire universe,
but how to believe in &quot;everything&quot; when I grew up seeing &quot;nothing&quot;
dressed in wedding rings that shine like glass illusions?
And maybe love is like the rings of Saturn, shining in the distance,
but hollow when you come too close to their mysterious orbit,
maybe we always orbit around its mystery, never quite touching it.
Perhaps I want to touch love, to hold it, to breathe it, to trust in it—
but how to believe in something I have only seen in stories and fantasies?
And perhaps the magic of love lies not in touch, but in silent belief,
in finding truth in these legends woven by stars and time,
in transforming dreams into tangible realities, dreaming that somewhere,
there is an answer to the questions that not even the cosmos
can whisper in the eternal night full of whispers and desires.
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