Follow your heart
Шрифт:
The torment they weave, so bitter, so bold.
Beneath the gossamer veil of speech,
A soulful haven lies to reach.
Amid the throngs of fleeting forms,
Resides the eternal, untouched by storms.
I WANT TO BE MYSELF
“The wind along the coast speaks not to our ears but to the quiet places within, calling us to remember who we are. Walking along the Amalfi Coast, I felt the breeze call me. It wasn’t the wind or the sea – it was something from within, asking me to be true to myself.”
I want to be myself, unbound,
Not another’s shadow found.
A wind that dances on ocean streams,
Or a breeze that brushes through fleeting dreams.
The waves hold magic, fierce yet pure,
A silent power that will endure.
I long to rise, a bird set free,
To soar through skies of infinity.
Not shaped by hands of another’s art,
But true to the rhythm of my heart.
I seek to rise where my spirit dwells,
Not someone else—but myself, and well.
LOVE CASTS US INTO THE ABYSS
“Love is the fire that lights the heavens and scorches the earth. It leaves nothing untouched. After visiting an exhibition on passion in Italian Renaissance art, I was struck by the intensity of love’s duality—how it uplifts and destroys all at once. That night, I wrote this.”
Love casts us into the abyss,
A dream of tomorrow’s bliss.
“You rise and cannot see,”
Cries the star, disgraced and free.
Love burns the heart, consumes the soul,
Leaving us less than whole.
It dries the body, quenches the flame,
And leaves us wandering, lost to shame.
Empty love, a shadowed thought,
A fortress of tears where hope is caught.
The sword of love, both iron and fire,
Breaks upon words of reckless desire.
AUTUMN WHISPERS IN PARIS
“On an autumn evening in Paris, I walked beneath the golden rain of leaves, their whispers carried by the wind. The city felt alive, as if it, too, breathed the poetry of the season.”
The autumn wind calls, soft and low,
Through Paris streets where shadows grow.
It stirs the leaves in a golden flight,
A fleeting dance in the fading light.
The Seine reflects the twilight’s glow,
Its waters deep, where dreams still flow.
Beneath the arches, the city hums,
To the rhythm of footsteps, as evening comes.
The air is sharp, the world feels near,
A tapestry woven with love and fear.
The bells of Notre Dame softly chime,
Marking the hours, stealing time.
A cafe table, a pen in hand,
Words take flight at fate’s command.
The city speaks in a thousand ways,
In autumn whispers, in smoky haze.
The wind may chill, but hearts stay warm,
Sheltered by love in every storm.
Paris in autumn, a bittersweet song,
Where moments linger, though nights grow long.
RAINSONG IN THE CITY
“As the rain fell, I stood at the window, watching the city blur into a painting. Each droplet seemed to carry a secret, and the rhythm of the storm stirred something deep within me.”
The rain begins, a gentle sigh,
A silver veil from a tearful sky.
Each droplet dances upon the stone,
A hymn for the lost, the wandering, alone.
The rooftops glisten, the streets take sheen,
The world reborn in shades serene.
Windows blur with a liquid art,
Each streak a story, each smear a heart.
The scent of rain—earth’s quiet prayer,
Lingering soft in the heavy air.
A rhythm steady, a timeless beat,
A soothing balm for weary feet.
And as it falls, it seems to say,
“Pain will pass, just as clouds give way.
The darkest skies will always part,
For rain is the language of the heart.”