The essence of stories is such, the writer's pen remains still,
Until a tale chooses them, and the ink begins to spill.
In the world of books, a rare story claimed my heart,
Now I belong not to myself, but to the tales that never depart.
Each word, each sentence, no longer my own,
But whispers of stories, in my soul, deeply sown.
They cling to my spirit, they live in my mind,
Bound to the depths of my heart, they're forever entwined.
  • where imagination live
  • Se ha unidoDecember 27, 2024


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authorizza authorizza Apr 09, 2026 07:42AM
Guyss...!?? Missed me ..?!!I knows its pretty late I wasn’t here since January but ..hey !! Hello Do you even recognize your love? 
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