She will always be an unfinished poem.
Unfinished in the way she lives -
where passion collides with fear,
and potential and failure reside in the same home. There is this great risk,
a constant edge of falling apart
no matter what she pursues.
That’s her way through the world.
I wonder if she chooses this incompletion
or if fate carved it into her life
before she ever had a say.
And I wonder -
if I finish something she couldn’t,
would that mean her fate isn’t mine after all?
- Nur Houda Or
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