Reflection:
There is no such thing as a small moment. I’ve learned to see through layers—beneath surface smiles and beyond dusty streets. To write what I see is to testify that everything matters.
Poem:
I see the dust on the shoes of messengers.
The way the sun crawls up the spine of a schoolboy carrying a notebook of dreams.
I see doves on telephone wires—
as if heaven still finds ways to balance between lines.
I see wounds—stitched and raw—
on people who speak in metaphors and hope I’ll notice.
And yes, I see what others ignore.
The woman washing her child’s hair in the street gutter.
The teenager drawing futures in the dirt.
The sacred ordinary.
My eyes are not cameras; they are confessions.
I do not photograph the world—
I listen to its shadows
and transcribe them into verse.
