i planted hope where no one would see
tended the quiet, the calm, the plea
and yet they took what i had sown
a prize, a medal, a fame of their own
my hands grew weary, my heart stayed true
while coins fell into a stranger’s view
the world may cheer for another’s name
but peace is mine, it cannot be claimed
i stand unbowed, my spirit wide
the honor lives deep, it will not hide
no gold, no prize, no public acclaim
can erase the fire that still burns the same
Imagination doesn’t grow from what we consume passively; it grows from what we wrestle with, reinterpret, and internalize. A screen delivers images ready-made, complete, finished. A book forces the mind to become the missing architect
to build the worlds, give faces to characters, and animate silence with meaning. The difference isn’t moral; it’s structural. One stream keeps you inside the frame. The other invites you to redraw it.
i chase the dawn, i chase the night
i reach for stars, i seek the light
each moment whispers, calls, and sings
and opens wide its golden wings
i taste the fire, i taste the rain
i hold the joy, i hold the pain
the world unfolds with each new view
and life is richer when pursued
fear has no place where hearts expand
each step, each breath, each grasping hand
brings colors, sounds, and tastes untold
a life of wonder, brave and bold
