We are crafted to exist in every life, in every conclusion, in every fresh start that pretends to be something new.
We are crafted to exist, like two tides that forget the shore but return, time and again, to the same unyielding desire.
Endless like a circle that insists it has no beginning, like a clock that chuckles at time while still keeping track of it.
We encounter each other as strangers, bearing different names, different scars, yet something ancient within us murmurs: not the first encounter, not the last.
We are crafted to exist, like fire masquerading as ash, like rain reminiscing about the cloud
it once called home.
And isn't it curious how endings imitate death
yet secretly practice for a return?
Endless, we declare, as if forever were a promise, not a contradiction.
For what is endless
if not the art of losing and rediscovering the same soul
in a thousand borrowed lives?
We are crafted to exist and unmade, and crafted anew.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem