Poetry is the sun that never sets,
A river of voices—no silence, no regrets.
It bends, not breaks, beneath the weight of years,
A lantern for the lost, a map for pioneers.
I walked with nothing, yet carried the sky,
No armor but the word, no shield but “why?”
And time declared me warrior—not by sword, but sight—
To cut through dark and welcome light.
Ask if I’ve conquered thrones or seas—
I’ll say: I hold no trophies, only keys.
The kind that turn in locks of dust and doubt,
That swing time’s silent hinges out.
Let the world call this a minor art—
Still it cracks the hardest heart.
No age can claim it, no grave can keep
What rises while the world’s asleep.
Poetry is root and bloom and seed,
A clock that ticks without the need to bleed.
And when they ask, “Who reads it now?”
Point to the wind—
and whisper, “Listen…
how?”