22/05/2025
It’s not just roads I pass each day,
But stories whispered in their way.
A morning scene, quiet yet loud,
A car too tired to face the crowd.
Its doors held close with threads, not steel,
But faith alone behind the wheel.
Strings may tie what’s falling apart,
But belief—that’s the beating heart.
Chacha Driver, calm and wise,
White beard soft, with knowing eyes.
A cigarette in fingers curled,
Still gently holding up his world.
Beside him, laughter light and free,
A passenger, in sweet esprit.
Their chat a song, their smiles a verse,
In broken car, a universe.
These little sights, these quiet fights,
Of morning souls and early lights—
Remind me how, in each new dawn,
We pack our pain and carry on.
We wipe the tears we cried at night,
And step again into the light.
No sighs at sunrise, none for now—
We’ll sigh again, but not just now.
For with the sun, the wheels must spin,
A brand new day, a will within.
On fragile threads, we still endure—
What holds us up is something pure.
