They ask me what I believe,
and I tell them, I don’t know.
But inside, I wonder—
is there a storyteller?
A voice that wrote the stars?
Once, a child walked in the woods,
hoping to hear the trees speak.
The wind answered softly,
but no words came.
Still, the child felt less alone.
I don’t follow the maps of men,
but I hold their stories close—
like Krishna’s flute,
or the comfort of a whispered prayer
when the night feels too long.
A traveler sees footprints in the sand
and imagines a guide,
though none is there.
Is it foolish to believe?
Or is it the heart’s way of hoping?
When I fall to my knees,
I call to something unseen—
not gods in temples,
but the silence between stars.
And sometimes, the silence feels alive.
A potter shapes clay
without giving it a name.
If there is a hand behind it all,
perhaps it is the same—
no need for rules or labels,
just the art of creation itself.
I walk through questions,
not searching for answers,
but listening for stories—
parables in the quiet,
where faith is not a fortress,
but an open door.
