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The Lamp of Dusk

When daylight folds its weary wings,
And shadows climb the silent trees,
The earth remembers ancient things
And sighs them to the evening breeze.

The river glows with fading fire,
Its mirrored sky a waning flame;
The crickets sing their one desire,
And call the stars by secret name.

O heart, be still beneath this dome
The night has come to set you free;
For every path that led you home
Was lit by dreams you could not see.

The First Downpour

The first downpour is very lovely.
The first downpour is also very important.
This beautiful scene comes only once a year.
The first rain makes everyone happy.
It gently touches the hearts of all people.

The first downpour falls on the tops of trees.
It comes before any other rain.
The last rain is not as special as the first.
The first downpour is loved by everyone.

The first downpour brings happiness to all.
It removes all our sadness and worries.
It shines brightly on the earth,
So everyone can enjoy its beautiful sight.

Climate Change

The world is changing, a fiery breath, Seasons are shifting, flirting with death. Glaciers are weeping, oceans expand, A warming planet, a shifting sand. The storms are raging, the floods arise, As nature is screaming beneath the skies. We see the damage, the rising heat, A future uncertain, a bitter defeat. But hope remains, a flickering spark, To heal the planet, to leave our mark. With every action, a chance to mend, To save our Earth, until the end.

The universe leaves clues in lowercase

A grain of sand inside my sandal and I suddenly remember how stars die into dust. That I’m walking on stardust and complaining. The ants know something we don’t. Their roads are invisible but they follow them like scripture. I can’t even follow my own thoughts without checking my phone. There’s a spider web in the corner of the balcony. Perfect geometry, unplanned architecture. I watch the wind tear it apart, and she begins again. No crying. Just silk. At 2am I hear an owl call once, and wait for the reply. It never comes. Not every message needs an answer to mean something. The moon was c

After The Last Bite

‎The world arrives like ice cream in a cone, ‎a fragile balancing act of sweetness and gravity, ‎pressed into our hands ‎as if forever could be held. ‎ ‎First, the tongue knows only joy: ‎strawberry mornings, ‎vanilla laughter, ‎the dusk of chocolate nights. ‎Each flavor a hymn, ‎each lick a promise, ‎each moment melting faster ‎than we wish. ‎ ‎But the cone— ‎ah, the cone is never flawless. ‎A hidden fracture, ‎drip threading down our wrists, ‎reminding us: ‎what delights will also stain. ‎ ‎We tilt, ‎we hurry, ‎we try to rescue the sweetness, ‎yet time runs quicker than our hunger. ‎And isn’
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