Dreams do not belong to me, they are borrowed
Dreams do not belong to me—they are borrowed, woven over time by unseen hands, bearing the secrets of the world,
Voices that sing into my marrow, whispering ancient incantations: "Thus must you excel in the vast universe,"
Success is a slow and silent growth, a seed hidden beneath the soil of dreams, not a dazzling trophy,
And yet, they call it victory, measuring us by the fruits harvested, never by the blood in the roots.
Failure is a murmur of curse, a shadow that should not exist in the pure light of our desires,
But what if the unchanging darkness is actually the fertile soil that nourishes the tree of life, deeply hidden?
We are not the script, but merely the silent stage, set for a play we have not dared to write,
When will the spirit tear the old pages and burn, untamed, like a flame that dances in the eternal night?
We are but reflections of a dream stretching across time, shadows in a cosmic dance of light and dark,
When will we open the gates of the soul and let the spirit fly, freed from the burden of inherited dreams?
In every unspoken thought, in every hidden desire, lies a story waiting to be released,
Will we find the courage to break free from invisible chains and burn with the intensity of a new sun?
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