On a nameless night, under a sky sprinkled with extinguished stars

On a nameless night, under a sky sprinkled with extinguished stars, Thoughts trickle like oil in the engine of an old dream, And I, a lost acrobat, sway on the thin thread of life, Trying to grasp in my palms the essence of a world that smolders quietly. You don't have to write to feel poetry in your veins, It's there, in the smell of gasoline and the smoke rising to the sky, In the eyes of the one who fills tanks with untold stories, A poet without words, dancing among car queues and time. I am an artist of the trapeze, not fitting into molds, With my heart suspended between a yesterday and an uncertain tomorrow, Each leap a long verse, each catch a moment of grace, For between falls and flights, true poetry is born. So, in the silence of the night, among ticking engines, I wonder, who am I to name my art? A trapeze artist of destiny, a dreamer in the shadow of light, Or perhaps just a soul that knows how to breathe poetry without words.