In the dark night sky, I sail on the ocean of stars, looking for a ray of light, in a nebula of hope far away.
Cosmic dust dances slowly, whispering promises of the future, amidst the eerie darkness, I found a glimmer of light.
Oh, nebula, the vortex of dreams that never goes out, you draw a path in the dark, towards a day full of courage. Every colour you emit, is a prayer that floats into the sky, touching the throne of the Creator, carve your destiny with love and hope.
So let me fly, penetrate the endless sky, with the hope of being a guide, into a new universe.
Slipi. 05 December 2024. 9:19 PM
at the edge of the red twilight, the voice of the people echoed weakly.
In unheard whispers, there is hope that is increasingly fading.
The streets are full of grey dust, leaving footprints without a new destination.
Behind the glitter of the bustling city, they are overlooked in a gloomy shadow of silence and peace. The voices of the people who are tired of screaming, reaching for justice which is increasingly difficult.
Burned by empty promises, but still hopeful in wounded hope.
Dusk turns into dark night, But the voice never went away. In the hearts of those who continue to groan, there is a prayer that strengthens the weary soul.
HEY, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty coat,
He will win a shilling,
Or he spend a groat:
Dusty was the coat,
Dusty was the colour,
Dusty was the kiss
That I gat frae the Miller.
Hey, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty sack;
......
In the dark night sky, I sail on the ocean of stars, looking for a ray of light, in a nebula of hope far away.
Cosmic dust dances slowly, whispering promises of the future, amidst the eerie darkness, I found a glimmer of light.
Oh, nebula, the vortex of dreams that never goes out, you draw a path in the dark, towards a day full of courage. Every colour you emit, is a prayer that floats into the sky, touching the throne of the Creator, carve your destiny with love and hope.
So let me fly, penetrate the endless sky, with the hope of being a guide, into a new universe.
Slipi. 05 December 2024. 9:19 PM
at the edge of the red twilight, the voice of the people echoed weakly.
In unheard whispers, there is hope that is increasingly fading.
The streets are full of grey dust, leaving footprints without a new destination.
Behind the glitter of the bustling city, they are overlooked in a gloomy shadow of silence and peace. The voices of the people who are tired of screaming, reaching for justice which is increasingly difficult.
Burned by empty promises, but still hopeful in wounded hope.
Dusk turns into dark night, But the voice never went away. In the hearts of those who continue to groan, there is a prayer that strengthens the weary soul.
HEY, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty coat,
He will win a shilling,
Or he spend a groat:
Dusty was the coat,
Dusty was the colour,
Dusty was the kiss
That I gat frae the Miller.
Hey, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty sack;
......