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"  I n t e r l u d e  "


The world dims—
light falters, seas fall silent,
love cools to ash,
and memory frays into dust.

Yet in the hiatus,
a sudden blush of petals—
sakura, trembling in the air,
a brief rebellion of beauty
against the certainty of decay.

For a heartbeat,
the streets are rivers of pink snow,
     strangers pause,
           eyes lifted,
as if eternity had cracked open.

But the blossoms scatter,
sweep into gutters,
trampled under shoes.

The trains still run,
the markets open,
emails pile up,
and the world resumes
its business-as-usual.

The bloom was only a pause,
a reminder that even endings
carry their own fragile grace—
and then the clock ticks on.

.

Human Brickworks

We are the bricks,
not of temples to the unseen,
but of cities that rise from sweat and vision.

Each hand lays another,
each voice cements the mortar of memory.
The old boys built their halls of power,
gilded chambers where few were allowed.

But the wall is wider than their club,
the scaffold higher than their reach.
Every worker, thinker, dreamer
is a stone in this unfinished tower.

Civilisation is not a monument,
it is a worksite—
and we are the brickworks,
stacked not for worship,
but for the ascent of humankind.

Ladrillería Humana

Somos los ladrillos,
no de templos para lo invisible,
sino de ciudades que nacen del sudor y la visión.

Cada mano coloca otro,
cada voz cimenta la argamasa de la memoria.
Los viejos clubes levantaron sus salones de poder,
cámaras doradas donde pocos podían entrar.

Pero el muro es más ancho que su círculo,
el andamio más alto que su alcance.
Cada obrero, pensador, soñador
es una piedra en esta torre inacabada.

La civilización no es un monumento,
es una obra en construcción—
y nosotros somos la ladrillería,
apilados no para adorar,
sino para el ascenso de la humanidad.

.

Stand in your own light—
even when the constellations fade.

Carry your silence like a star,
not as a weight,
but as a compass in the dark.

The world will tell you
to orbit borrowed suns,
to wait for comets of rescue.
Smile, and keep burning.

Every step you take
is a small supernova.
Every breath you claim
is proof you are your own galaxy.

Do not beg the heavens
to redraw their maps—
learn their rhythm,
and chart your own sky.

Stand in your own light.
It will not collapse.
It will not vanish.
It will expand with you.  

And when others gather, drawn

to your quiet constellation,
you will know:
you were never drifting alone.

.

Walk Until the Horizon Moves

Begin before you are ready.
The path does not wait.

Stones shift.
Dust rises.
Your breath keeps time.

Do not measure distance—
measure persistence.

The world will whisper: stay still,
safety is here.
But stillness is a cage
with invisible bars.

Step again.
Even faltering steps
teach the ground your name.

And when the horizon bends,
when it leans closer
as if listening,

you will know:
movement itself
was the destination.

.

when you risk a sound

Not every silence is empty.
Some are waiting rooms,
some are doorways.

You do not need permission
to cross the threshold.
A word spoken here
can ripple outward—
not as thunder,
but as rain on dry ground.

The crowd may never turn its head.
Still, the air shifts
when you risk a sound.

Think of it less as echo,
more as migration:
your voice taking flight,
finding a branch
you will never see.  

And if one day
a stranger hums a tune
you thought was lost,
you will understand—
the quiet was listening
all along.

.

Speak Into the Quiet

Speak into the quiet—
even when no one answers.

Let your words fall like stones into water,
not to sink,
but to widen the circle.

The world will tell you to wait
until you are certain,
until the crowd nods in agreement.
Laugh, and begin anyway.

Every syllable you risk is a seed.
Every silence you break is a bridge.

Do not beg the echo
to return in your own voice—
trust it will find another throat,
another shore.

Speak into the quiet.
It will not betray you.
It will not diminish you.
It will carry you further than you know.

And when others reply,
not in unison but in harmony,
you will know:
your voice was never alone.

.

I was taught to polish mirrors

that never showed me back—

a child bent into reflection,

a servant of glass.

Their voices were lanterns

turned inward, hoarding flame.

I learned to speak in refraction,

to wear masks that smiled

without teeth.

But silence, too, is a teacher.

From the hollow rooms I carried

a stubborn ember—

not theirs, not borrowed—

a light that refuses

to bow to glass.

Stand in Your Own Light

Stand in your own light—
even when the lamps go out.

Carry your silence like a lantern,
not as a burden,
but as a map.

The world will tell you
to wait for rescue,
to lean on borrowed fire.
Smile, and keep walking.

Every step you take
is a small rebellion.
Every breath you claim
is proof you are enough.

Do not beg the tide
to turn in your favour—
learn its rhythm,
and row anyway.

Stand in your own light.
It will not blind you.
It will not leave you.
It will grow with you.

And when others gather,
drawn to the glow,
you will know:
you were never walking alone.

.

There you are,

trading small graces;

cups & saucers

like treaties of peace.

I sit back,

half‑skeptic, half‑believer,

watching this fragile pact

hold for a moment—

an apparition

of simple bliss.

Strange, how it failed

when roses bloomed

too brightly in the garden.