But, friends, Mara came here, would you come tomorrow? Yeah. Wait, Adele, why are you not asking me if I'm going to come tomorrow? I'll come tomorrow, okay, with your concubines and wives, please don't, don't call me. Okay, I want to recite my piece before we enter the space.
Remember, tomorrow is Sunday, and I have to be in charge by 6.30 a.m. So, I'm giving everybody the grace till 12.30 to round up. So, before then, let me recite my poem, so you can critique and do whatever you want to do. Okay, the last one is, Peace and Freedom.
Tonight, I gaze into the horizon, as I listen to the harmony of peace and freedom, with my soul drawn to the melody of my boat, to its gentle calm. I remember the days of torrents, the angry sea and my restless self, how the waves once rose like unanswered prayers, how the wind bruised the sky with its howling, and how it asked for, it took scales for destiny. But time, that quiet end man, has steadied my trembling hand, the same water that threatens to swallow me, now crowding my reflection in silent hush.
A sliver hush, the tide still moves, yet it no longer commands my fear. I have learnt the language of storms, their warning, their wisdom, their passing. Tonight, the horizon does not intimidate me, invites me.
The city lies shimmering like distant promises, their red glow bleeding softly into the dark, and I realize, peace was never the absence of waves, but the courage to float through them. So I stand here, guided, not drifting, listening to the rhythm beneath my feet, and I thank the sea for teaching me how to sing within myself. Thank you.
Thank you, thank you. Vantisheva, this is beautiful. You know one thing that stood out for me, like, stood out, stood out, is the way you presented it.
