The world is a desert all glare, all distance.

But somewhere within me, a garden survives.

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Fed by small mercies, rooted in silences, it blooms in the heat and shelters my name.

 

Laughter floats like dust in the light. Even in the stillness, something sings.

 

I return to this place when the dust is too much. I drink from it when love feels far.

 

This is my oasis not escape, but remembrance. Not a place, but a promise that something soft still lives