A wind blows through nameless roads,
Carrying silence from forgotten oaths.
A star falls into the arms of sky,
We forget sometimes, even hope can cry.

My hands reach out from shadow to light,
Innocent as a child, a rose in the night.
Words spill from the edge of my soul,
Each one a heartbeat, each one whole.

Life is a thread—fragile, thin,
Love the balance between fire and wind.
Whenever I gaze in the mirror slow,
I see a half-self, and a prayer I know.

I walk toward morning, soft and slow,
With tired shoulders, where dreams still grow.
Each step a mark, each mark a song,
Perhaps the truest poems remain unsung.