How would you say, a kind of you I am. That you did not let me be.

A kind of In free translation, when you love, you are no longer you!

I wonder why my two eyes are fighting for a single look?

You know, man has only one dream: to be loved. The rest is business.

When from the soul, people cut themselves from the souls!
When people cut from the souls of others with gestures, words or absences, life seems to lose its celebration, its taste of celebration. It becomes an equation without a sky — or maybe only with clouds.

But you know, right there in the soul where the wound is made, a poem can also be born: not from the need to cover the pain, but from the desire to understand it, to transform it into something that can still touch — not with a blade, but with light.

Sometimes, celebration doesn't come from outside. It ignites secretly, in simple gestures: a bowl of water forgotten for a bird, an anonymous book left in a park. It may not be a celebration with fanfare, but it is one with dignity.

A cut celebration, Undrawn words are cut from the soul, with teeth of silence, with teeth of understanding. On the edge of the evening, instead of a stopover, there remains a void with the smell of the abstruse.

People leave, but the wounds keep the light in plaster and the smile full. Behind the eyes — a silent campfire — something gathers, something was still wanted.

But a moment comes — and it's not a celebration, but just a child who tells you "how big the moon is in the water, how warm the asphalt is" and then your ideal slowly starts:

that celebrations also come when there are no flowers, but in the palm that washes away shame from the clouds. When you leave a book on a park bench, let the reader with the soul find it.