To everyone I gave my heart, only dust remained,
To everyone I gave my love, I was left with waiting and pain.

My youth passed by, and no one ever knew
What restless years had done to a heart so true.

Thirty-some years have come and thirty-some years have gone,
Leaving me with a thousand memories, and graves to mourn.

No home I could call, “This is where I belong,”
No shoulder to rest on when the road felt too long.

They told me, “The world is a traveler, and life merely passes by,”
But what good are those words when the heart is left behind?

Wherever I ran, every door was closed,
One by fate, another by walls nobody knows.

One said, “If you have no money, believe in love,”
Another said, “If you have love, life will be enough.”

I walked away from both; neither love nor wealth stayed,
Only a heart full of questions, wounded and afraid.

I watched great fortunes fall into the hands of the wind,
And dreams become nothing but sorrows within.

The weary economy of this world has wearied me too,
Yet somehow my heart still lives, still hopes for something new.

To those tables where bread was earned with pain,
To roofs that could not promise shelter again.

To those who ran and never reached the shore,
To those who worked all their lives yet owned nothing more.

To the lover who sat and wrote a thousand lines,
But no one ever read those letters between the lines.

I am a poet; I ask this procession no more,
Not why this road exists, nor what lies beyond its door.

I am the seventy-first director of my own life’s play,
And you sit there watching, O Time—what will you say?

One runs as though forever were his name,
Another sits and watches the departing train.

One swore upon love, then sold it for a price,
Another spoke of loyalty while turning someone’s heart to ice.

Someone told me, “Tomorrow, everything will be fine,”
But all I saw in tomorrow was yesterday repeating its design.

So many nights I stared at the wall and cried,
“God, where is my share of life? Where is my place to reside?”

I never complained against You, nor against the world’s decree,
My heart only wonders why life demanded so much from me.

If my only sin was having a heart too pure,
Tell me, why do gentle hearts inherit wounds that never cure?

If I was never meant to fall in love,
Why did You place such longing in my blood?

I do not fear defeat, though I am tired and worn,
For after every dark night, somewhere a spring is born.

There is still a window open somewhere in my heart,
And from far away, I still smell the fragrance of a new start.

Though outwardly broken, I have not surrendered my way,
There is still a reason within me to remain and stay.

If the whole world has closed its doors behind me,
God is still here—why should I fear another wall I cannot see?

I have only one question for all humanity:
What love can remain if it does not belong to eternity?

So I will turn to Him when everyone has gone,
For He is the end of every road, and its beginning at dawn.

I ask for neither riches nor a throne of gold,
Only a heart that does not tremble when its love grows old.

Only someone who whispers, “Stay… keep singing your song,”
Not someone who breaks my heart and says I was wrong.

And if no one remains, I will become my own friend,
Walk beyond this marketplace, and let the old road end.

For a poet is one who, after a thousand defeats,
Still writes a verse, still wakes, still hears the heartbeat.

Why should I fear the judgment of those who never knew my pain?
Those who never lived my life have no right to explain.

I ask nothing from the past about what it took away,
Nor from those who led me toward the edge of yesterday.

From tomorrow I ask for only one small sign:
That morning will touch my window with the breath of springtime.

And if the black book of my lifetime reaches its end,
Let this bitter poem remain as a message to a friend.

Let it be known that once there lived a heart that broke,
Yet for the love of God, it never lost hope.

To everyone I gave my heart—even if they became nothing to me,
Love still lives within this chest, O cruel eternity.

I am a poet; I ask this procession no more,
For the destination lies beyond this world—
and I need ask no more.