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I have returned to writing because my soul has not yet died,
and whispers of life spring from the most uncertain corner.
Words, like leaves, fall in the breeze,
reflections of dreams, a sweet echo that goes on forever.
I have walked again, because my feet have not yet died,
to leave marks on the earth, to seek the desert.
Every step a heartbeat, every route a feeling,
defying the shadow, inviting the light to come.
The pen is my sword, the paper my confidant,
in each stroke I find what burns in my mind.
Ink is the river where my longings flow,
I sail towards the future, leaving behind the sleeplessness.
And although time is a thief that steals the heartbeat,
each verse is a bridge to what I have wanted.
I'm back, and I'm here, with an open heart,
because my essence lives, because I still have the port.