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Poem

I treat love as a rare art, a bold banner fluttering in the wind,
Only those who have fallen off the map of the world, the barefoot kings of the sky, are worthy,
Weavers of warm words, who weave webs of dreams and pure hopes,
Where girls come to immerse themselves in the boundless spring of poetry.
Then they discover the secret thrill, the bud that gently opens to the light,
And let the unspun thread find its destiny in the world like a liberated river,
To these dreamer kings, exiled from concrete kingdoms into freedom,
Only the poet's path was destined, dancing on the edges of the universe.
They walk on the branches of the stars, building bridges between chasms and unseen abysses,
Without courts or castles, only with a heart like a palace of thoughts and longings,
And there's no way to gather them, for they are the wind, the rain, and the song of the night,
They are the nomadic kings of dreams, eternal wanderers on the hidden map of the soul.
They travel through galaxies of words, in search of pure and luminous truth,
With eyes toward horizons where the sky and earth kiss in deep secrecy,
Each of their steps leaves behind echoes of light, falling stars in the night,
In a world that cannot contain them, but owes them the magic of existence.

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