With dirty hands, but with a gentle soul, knees in dust, on the threshold of fate, I smooth a path under the burning sky, towards the heart that still awaits me in a dream.

The wedding ring, a circle of silent fire, showed itself to me through gestures of earth— not shining gold, but fallen clay, which bears the most sacred oath.

Do not give yourself temples, but pure silences, for my path is full of dust and longing, but each gesture—small prayer—is a gentle shield for a future.

Nothing is base when it is done with love: even in the dust, love ripens.