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The Known Path Sometimes I already know where it all will end, yet my steps continue to fall, On this pathway of sand and stars where every trace becomes a burnt prayer... I search the heavens for answers that my heart already knows in deep secret, But the road itself pulses like earth's veins filled with sap and vibrant life... I build houses from dreams for souls that will never belong to me alone, The dust clings to my palms like blessings of the sacred red earth below... Walls rise from nothingness like flowers from graves of forgotten wise men, Each brick laid is a word from the poem I write with my trembling body... The dream takes shape at dawn like mist transforming into soaring white birds, I know that someone else will sleep in the house I build with my violet blood... But I didn't come to this planet of silver and bitter tears for the ending, I came for the dance of construction, for the scent of freshly cut wood at dawn... For the moment when the virgin wall meets the first ray of golden light, For the joy of seeing how the floating idea becomes warm, tangible reality... My hands don't build for possession but for the sacred act of creation, Each hammer blow is a note in eternity's symphony written through pure gesture... The path I walk already knows its destination but I follow it for each step, For each stone that teaches me to be present in this fragile, fleeting moment... I didn't come to the world for home but for the journey's perpetual charm, For cosmic dust that gathers on eyelashes when I gaze at dying stars above... For the smell of fresh lime and sweat that mingles with whispered prayers, For the dream born from my hands even though it will never belong to me... I came for construction not for dwelling, for the road not for arrival, For the eternal dance of becoming in this world of shadows and passing lights... For the architect never dies, he lives in every line that has been drawn, In every materialized dream that rises skyward like a prayer made of stone... The house becomes legend but the creator becomes myth, his soul floating through rooms, Through hallways where the echo of strange footsteps still bears his genesis imprint... People will say "so-and-so lived here" but they'll whisper "who conceived this beauty," For true beauty always bears the signature of the one who first dreamed it... In every window shine the eyes of the architect who calculated light's angle, In every door hides the hand of the one who measured the path from heart to threshold... Generations will pass through these chambers like waves through crystal caves, But the builder's spirit remains trapped in walls like perfume in dried flowers... For it's not the house that makes the architect but the architect makes the house immortal, Each creation is a child of the soul that breaks free to live independently... And when time erases the tenants' names from history's dusty registers, The eternal question will remain: who was the one who transformed earth into heaven... Who was the magician who taught stone to sing and wood to dance in wind, Who was the poet who wrote with hammer and ruler verses of concrete and light... For in every construction a question is born that will never have an answer, A beautiful question like a mystery that makes the heart beat stronger in the chest... And thus the architect gains immortality not through the house built but through the enigma left, Through the question that will vibrate in walls as long as beauty exists in the world...

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