A year unfolds,
its edges sharp,
its sky both clear and clouded.
The hum of progress grows louder,
machines whisper in tandem with hearts,
a digital tide swelling,
yet yearning for the shore of the human touch.
The Earth shifts in her slow resolve,
her breath warmer,
her rivers seeking renewal,
her forests speaking in tongues of flame and seed.
Dreams stretch wider,
cities rise taller,
bridges span divides,
yet shadows linger-
of doubt, of distance,
of the cost of what we've left behind.
2025,
a canvas unpainted yet stained with intent,
each step forward a question:
What will we carry?
What will we leave?
And who will we become?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem