Every 9th of August

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

I am fighting my own silent war.

Alone, afraid, carrying these scars,

Still on the ground, aiming for the stars.

Every night I ask the sky,

“Will tomorrow finally be mine?”

Silence is the only reply,

Still, I will rewrite this fate of mine.

Every 9th of August,

I remind myself of one hard truth:

I am not counting all my years,

I am counting every conquered fear.

Stars don’t shine because they hide,

They shine because they burn inside.

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Every time I am told I won’t rise,

I answer with relentless tries.

Discipline is my only weapon;

I never asked for gifts from heaven.

Either I will stand where dreamers climb,

Or I will die still trying …every time.

If fate buries me beneath the ground,

I will rise like a seed without a sound.

Storms may bend me, break my frame,

But they will never make me quit the game.

So twinkle, twinkle, little star,

One day I will heal these unseen scars.

And if I fall before I fly,

I will fall believing I still can rise.

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