Here in my home 

In my home, 

a man’s worth isn’t measured by his strength, 

but by his wealth. 

A poor man is invisible, his tools useless.

 He’s only noticed when he’s singing a sorrowful song, 

a dirge that echoes our collective pain. 

To be heard, 

your voice must be strong enough to shake the earth,

 like a call to awaken the future.

 For even the smallest creature knows that tomorrow’s survival depends on today’s struggles. 

We’re all born from a fractured past, 

a broken bond that shapes our present.

I hid my love deep within her heart

like a seed planted in fertile soil.

 I confessed that in love, I’m just a child taking my first steps, 

stumbling but eager to learn. I admitted that I don’t understand the bond between us,   

I asked her to nurture my heart like a garden that blooms flowers, 

I remember then when my mother mouthed me 

that: loving a girl is different from liking her.

 Loving a girl is like cherishing a flower, gently caring for its petals, 

And  liking her is like picking it – one is forever, the other, fleeting. 

So, I ask you, which part of her heart should I  nurture

 with the metaphors of flowers.

That will zoom her out, of the shadow