Page 14 - Full-X-small-fmt-02.19.26pnt-5.5x8.5--V2.0

It calls you not to obedience, but to freedom—to claim your
birthright as a being who can think, who can feel, who can

choose the proud way you are and not to be pretend to be
someone else.
The poems are not commandments.

They are confessions of awareness, each revealing that the
moral compass, though buried under noise, still points
north.

So, stop and open this book again—truly open it.
Let the lines move through you with music, like heartbeat,
like a whisper in a storm.

Let them question what you repeat and awaken what you
forgot.
Feel their rhythm—the rhythm of days that pass, of

temptations that return, of time that demands meaning.
Listen to the sound of your own judgment rising quietly
between the verses.

It may be older than your culture, older than your language,
older than your pride.
It may be the same moral hum that once spoke to Moses

from a mountain, or to a child in a dream.
No tablets, no sermons—just words that remember what
commandments once meant.
That to envy is to poison joy: to be someone else and to make

your feel guilty of who you are with your grands, your
parents, your childhood loving heroes.

It is not “sophistication” it’s a distortion of your freedom to
be a proud human being with long and bright ancestry tree.
That to lie is to wound trust.
11 | P a g e