On a gray morning, when the sky weeps its clouds

On a gray morning, when the sky weeps its clouds, I remember another time, another me, When landscapes flowed from my brush, And every color had its own story to tell. Emerald forests and ruby sunsets, Danced on the canvas of my life, I imagined I could paint happiness, To capture fragments of the soul in every stroke. But foreign voices, cold and sharp, Whispered that my dream was just an illusion, "It won't feed you, it won't save you," And the colors began to fade, slowly but surely. With a heavy heart, I put the brush down, And the world became a place of shadows and voids, My dream, now a lost echo, In a sea of unfulfilled desires and silent regrets. But in the silence of the nights, in the quiet darkness, Another friend rose from the shadows, A simple pen, with black and blue ink, Which began to write stories on white paper. And although I no longer paint with colors, With every word laid down on the page, I feel I recover a part of myself, A part of my buried dream. The ink becomes color, the words become strokes, And in every story, in every verse, I find my soul again, Lost among the shadows of the past. In a way, perhaps I never gave up, Perhaps I just changed my brush, And now, instead of landscapes and sunsets, I paint words that dance in my memories. And even if my dream has transformed, In the depths of my heart, I know it still lives, For art does not die, it only changes, And finds new ways to touch our souls. Thus, with every verse written, I recover my dream, And in the end, perhaps I have lost nothing, But merely found a new way To paint the world, with ink and word.