From the milk of my mother’s breast, a tender nourishment bestowed upon me, I emerged into this world—a vessel of life, a seeker of truth. The very essence of existence flowed through my veins, whispered secrets of ancient stars, and cradled my nascent soul.

And then, the verses began—the delicate threads spun by the loom of my heart. Each word, a filament of longing, a filament of wonder. I wove them into tapestries of thought, embroidered with dreams and stitched with memories. They danced across the parchment, pirouetting in moonlight, their syllables like celestial notes.

Prose, too, found its way to me—a steady stream that meandered through the valleys of my mind. It carried stories of love and loss, of heroes and villains, of ordinary moments that held extraordinary truths. I penned them with ink borrowed from the universe, etching tales upon the fabric of time.

And poetry—ah, poetry! It sprouted like wildflowers after rain, defiant and fragile. Its roots dug deep into my chest, seeking solace in the chambers of my heart. With trembling hands, I plucked metaphors from the air, strung them together like constellations, and set them free to roam the cosmos.

Under the moonlight, I stood—a sentinel of inspiration. The silver orb cradled my musings, casting shadows upon my skin. Its glow seeped into my bones, igniting fires of creation. I listened to the night breeze, whispered secrets carried from distant galaxies, and wove them into sonnets that tasted of stardust.

But sometimes, just sometimes, weariness settled upon my shoulders. The weight of unspoken words pressed down, and I longed for respite. I sought refuge in the quietude of dawn, where dew-kissed petals held promises of renewal. And there, beneath the waking sky, I found solace—a reminder that even poets need rest.

So, I rest. I close my eyes and surrender to the silence. The moonlight still cradles my palm, but now it whispers lullabies. And as I drift into slumber, I know that the verses will return, as inexorable as tides, as boundless as the cosmos. For the poet’s heart beats on, fueled by the milk of existence, and the dance continues.

Sometimes, just sometimes, tiredness is but a pause—a breath before the next crescendo.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer