goodnight 🩵
Between what was written
and what I begged Heaven to rewrite,
I built a house,
and called it patience.
The wind borrowed its doors.
Time carried away its roof.
Even the walls
learned the quiet language of cracks.
Still, every evening,
I lit a lamp
not because I believed
someone was on their way,
but because I refused
to let the darkness believe
it had inherited my name.
•
I have learned
that deserts are not cruel.
They simply ask every traveler,
"What is it you cannot live without?"
Some answer, Water.
Some answer, Love.
But the wise lower their gaze
and whisper, Mercy.
•
We spend our lives
believing we are searching for the road,
until one silent dawn
we discover
the road has been searching for us
all along.
•
Every farewell
buries a small grave between the ribs.
We call it memory,
because grief is too sacred a word
for ordinary conversation.
•
There are souls who arrive like rain,
awakening gardens
that had forgotten
they still knew how to bloom.
And there are souls who leave
like the setting sun,
taking nothing with them
except the warmth
you never realized
you had been living inside.
•
Perhaps fate
is a script already written.
Then dignity is reading
every painful line
without teaching your voice to tremble,
without allowing your heart
to forget its Maker.
•
So if you ever pass
the ruins of the house I built,
do not mourn it.
Sit beneath what remains.
For even a fallen home
can still offer shade.
And the tree never belongs
to the one who harvested its fruit;
it belongs to the one who planted it,
watered it with unseen tears,
and believed in spring
long before the first leaf
dared to appear.
