At the heart’s silent threshold, perhaps,
someone has built a home—
while sleep slips away, night after night.
A child’s sharp wail pierces the dark,
the mind, restless, trembles with the ache of birth.
Even if the eyes deny it, this truth remains:
Because a human heart beats here,
troubled whispers claw for freedom,
drowning themselves in poetry’s meaning.
Perhaps this is how long sorrow ends—
and the drunken dream is fulfilled,
soaring on literature’s wild, untamed chariot!