Tonight, I climbed to the terrace not to look for answers, but to keep a ritual older than language. The sky was quiet. The world below was loud. And there it was the crescent moon, thin as a promise, sharp as intention.
I have always believed the moon chooses poets before poets choose it. Some write about fire, some about storms. I write about the moon because it never begs for attention. It simply arrives, incomplete, unapologetic, teaching us the most dangerous truth: you don’t have to be whole to be powerful.
The crescent is my favorite form of the moon. Not full. Not trying to impress. Just becoming. It reminds me of everything I stand for growth without noise, beauty without explanation. Our ancestors bowed to this curve of light. They marked time by it. They trusted it with harvests, prayers, and promises. We were wiser then.
Most of my poems circle back to the moon because it understands waiting. It waxes slowly. It disappears without drama. It returns without apology. That rhythm fall, pause, rise is the oldest discipline in the world. Stronger than motivation. More honest than ambition.
When I stood on the terrace tonight, the crescent felt like a quiet nod. As if it knew my verses were already written in its shape. As if it was saying, keep going be sharp, be soft, be patient.
I hold a strong opinion here: anyone who loves the moon is not lost. They are simply listening to a slower clock. One that values depth over speed, silence over spectacle.
My poems are moon-born because the moon never asks me to rush. It only asks me to return.
And I always do.
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