And what remains when time unravels
when chance enters without warning?
An invisible plot, a loose thread
and fate, which cannot be explained
appears with its indistinct face

It was me, and yet it wasn’t
I no longer know where mine begins
In the eyes I encounter
a broken reflection
a longing that has no words

Life folds, twists
loses itself in its own turns
And I, lost, am turned around
not by the world, but by myself
in every fragment that breaks and reconstitutes

And still, there’s something in me that surrenders
an unwilling acceptance
that fate is no more than
a mirror where I see myself
but will never truly be me

Ah, the twist -
the silent movement
that pulls me and sustains me
on the edge of non-being
where everything is and isn’t
where everything happens without my understanding