The road stretches beyond sight,
fading into horizons that never arrive.
Footsteps mark the dust,
only to be swept away
by winds that remember nothing.
There is no map,
no final destination,
only the pull to move forward,
as if answers wait just beyond the next turn.
Mountains rise and fall,
rivers cross without question,
the sky shifts from dawn to dusk
and back again.
But the journey is not in the miles traveled,
nor in the places left behind.
It is in the spaces between heartbeats,
in the questions that never find an end,
and in the quiet understanding
that the path itself
is the purpose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem