Our love is like threads of songket and sari—
woven slowly, without haste,
brightly colored though from different hands.

You come from a land
where language and movement are like dance,
coloring days with spices and golden light.
I grew up on a land
quiet and simple,
where the wind knows the scent of warm rice and the first rain.

Our cultures are not patterns easily woven,
sometimes your threads don’t match my weave,
and the colors of my customs feel strange to your eyes.
Yet we choose to keep weaving—
not because it’s easy,
but because we know—
beauty can be born from knots of difference.

Though we have never met,
your words reach my evening window,
and my steps toward your land are carried not by promises,
but by hopes I plant
in the woven gaps of maps,
while you too nurture courage each night,
when screens become the only bridge between us.

Sometimes we quarrel,
like two folk songs crossing rhythms.
But love isn’t about being the same,
it’s about understanding
without changing each other’s base note.

You never ask me to be different,
and I never wish to erase what you bring.
We only embrace each other,
two souls from two lands,
who believe—
even threads of songket and sari that differ
can weave beautifully—
if embroidered into a heart that welcomes them.

I'm trapped, it feels endless
Drowning in my own thoughts
Is the path I've chosen the right one?
Have I taken a wrong turn?
Then why do I see no light ahead?

So many pebbles disturbing steps
So many exhausting uphill climbs
Is the destiny I hold onto just an illusion?
Will The dream I proudly share fade into mere memories?
I've wandered this far,
God, guide me through my doubts.

No time to carry the weight of their hate,
No space to kindle bitterness within.
Here I stand, wrapped in my wounds.

No words to unravel who I am,
No need to cleanse the stains of their judgment.
Here I linger, lost in my confusion.

No understanding do I seek from souls,
No gaze of sympathy do I crave.
It’s only me and the chaos I kept.

You, once became a shade in the middle of a mirage,
Teaching the meaning of trust even though the world is gray
Among the ever-changing dune,
Our steps were once in rhythm, against the wind.

I know, the desert wind will not wait,
When the traces are finally swept away by time,
Memories become small hills on the horizon.

The sun sets,
Replaced by a cold night
And you whisper,
Not all wounds must be driven away,
Let it settle in a corner of the heart,
As a small lantern in the long night.

Now, I walk,
Carrying the burden of longing on my back,
With your shadow behind
Our story is like a small oasis
Which I sip enough to keep walking
Where I have found meaning among the barren sands.

The path of life I once beheld,
Until I agreed to be born into this world,
I knew the reason without a doubt—
You, destined to be my mother.

In a world of right and wrong, painted gray,
Your color shines as white to me
In another life with or without choice,
I choose you.

A row of tabs with titles in hiding,
Each one a witness to the weight of today
The clock ticks louder, each second sharp,
Echoing the resolve she’s forced to obey
When did life slip into this solemn tone?

Her hand hovers, drawn to a magazine,
Its cover untouched, still crisp and clean
She peels it open, and there it is—
The faint smell of paper, a balm for her soul.

Not pages of profit or the season’s couture,
But the world of Bobo, the blue rabbit and friends
Bright illustrations, laughter tucked in each corner,
A refuge from journals and theories that age her too soon.

Here, she remembers a simpler time,
A decade past, when her world felt lighter
This magazine, still standing, still waiting,
The same one that sparked her love for the written word.

She smiles,
Because even amidst the seriousness,
A pause is enough to bring her home.

Time and again—
I convince myself I'm not waiting—
Now or later.

What I confessed yesterday—
It was nothing more than to make your day.

I can compete with someone who likes you,
But I can't compete with someone you like.

Don't worry about me, sir
I stand in freedom.