Forged in Fire

 

Forged in Fire

My soul is fertile soil — if you are a seed, stay. Grow roots in me, don’t leave.
Be root, be shelter, be eternity.

Let it be just us, like two rivers that meet and, in a silent pact, refuse to part.
I am presence, I am persistence, a mountain that does not bow, even when the wind screams.

Let us leave the world behind, like dry leaves carried by autumn.
Only those who make us bloom matter — those who water us with love and watch us unfold.

Let me curl into your arms, where winter does not dare enter.
I miss the lit fireplace — not just the fire, but the warmth only a passionate heart can give.

I don’t even need to say how much I need you; your presence is my rising sun, my daily rebirth.

Hold on to me and listen to the story time forgot to tell.
If we become one, we will dance through life like trees in the wind — roots intertwined, crowns free, souls in harmony.
It’s simple: a beginning without end, without masks, only promises drawn with the heart.

And I know you long for a night lived with intensity — unhurried, unafraid — just us, waiting for the dawn, hand in hand, like those who await the miracle of love.

I carry the past like a tattoo on my skin — but the future? That, I plant with hope.
I’m no prophet, but I see clearly: whoever tries to cut what I am will stumble on the stones that shaped me.

I live with an old soul, with honor, with truth. I do not bow my head.
I am storm and calm. I am a flame that does not fade, a verb in motion.

I keep beside me the eyes of those who love me, the voices that call me when the world falls silent.
And when everything ends, I will say goodbye with a smile, because I loved truthfully, I lived intensely.

Hot tears among melodies, days lived as if they were eternal.
My root? It was never trapped — it was always free, like the wind that dances without asking permission.

If life teaches anything, it’s that pain should not steal our soul — only tattoo it with shadows that shine in their own way.

The scar? It is a map of battles won in silence, not a dungeon.
It is the invisible trace of the courage of one who bled without surrendering.
I do not complain about bitterness — it is like wine aged in barrels of loss: harsh at first, but dense with truth.

Closed doors, torn letters, promises that burned like ancient scrolls… they are merely chapters of a book I still write with ink made of tears and passion.

And if life was harsh, I am grateful — because every victory was torn out with bare hands, like someone picking roses among thorns.
And every failure? I buried it with honor, without ever burying myself with it.

Love — that is the fire that keeps me lit on the coldest nights.
It is blade and cure, poison and antidote.
It is the whisper that calls me when the world screams.
And even if time tries to erase me, I am a flame that dances in the darkness — not to be seen, but to warm whoever dares to stay.