Eternal Carvings in my Heart - Part 1 (Dedication Poems)

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“Eternal Carvings in my Heart” is a poetry collection I’ve written for my fellow Subscribers. It’s still evolving, and I’m constantly adding new poems to express my gratitude, especially to those who really connect with my work.

Each one a token of appreciation—a way of pausing in the rush to say: I see you. Thank you.

The pieces that follow are offerings to fellow writers, to those whose presence has already stitched itself into this space.

Read them as open doors: invitations into a shared room of gratitude, and a soft “welcome” to the strange, luminous space we are building together.

I RECOMMEND SUBSCRIBING TO ALL OF THEM!

This first part contains around 30 poems written between October 2025 until February 2026

*Writing is where my heart has chosen to stay. If these letters have kept you company, you’re welcome to help keep the ink flowing — one quiet coffee at a time.

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*February 2026

To Aaliya

You were born into this life smiling, filled with hope.
However, you learnt from a young age the harsh truth,
Those close to you can be the one who stabs you from the back.
Life has unleashed arrows of trauma, poisoned with hate.
To pierce your chest, shatter your soul, and break your heart
***
You were wounded, injured, denied even the right to cry.
In that dark, abandoned corner where you were left,
You heard divine whispers that soothed your soul.
From that day forward, you stood still and chose silence.
to hear the hopeful messages left to your deeper self.
***
Your journey has been harsh, but deep down, you knew.
That divinity has justice, what’s taken shall be returned.
In this life or the next, but for now, you dove deep into the dark.
into the essence, into the dreams, into awakening through dreams
***
Those arrows of shame, of hate, of abuse, of torment
You didn’t want to seek revenge; you didn’t even think of it.
You decorated these arrows and turned them into flowers.
From the chaos scattered around you, you designed gifts.
***
You stood, at last, proud, smiling, bearing flowers and gifts.
Offering them to passersby, telling them it’s all going to be alright
You embraced their sorrows and struggles as if they were your own.
From darkness comes light, from sorrows come happiness
You finally built a sanctuary, a safe space for wandering souls.
The banner in the door says, “You’re safe here, and you shall remain.”

---

To imi

In the theatre of the unseen,
the portal that lies between
the dreams and the waking
imi rises from behind the curtains
Not to take the stage and act,
but to raise others from their seats
The audience becomes the actors
No one is unseen in this scene.
**
She takes the mike and says:
“If you feel deeply, you’re invited,
You don’t even have to speak or act
All I ask of you is to be, to remain
Never give up on your dreams
This mere stillness moves mountains
This silence speaks louder than sermons
Showing up is an invisible labor that
deserves applause from the crowds
In this stage, that is life.”
**
imi, your message is clear
You’re wearing your emotions as a suit
You walk proudly with a handbag of thoughts
Then you pause for a moment,
To lift those who’ve fallen
To clap to those who’ve achieved
To sit and cry with sadned souls
Your rawness isn’t nakedness,
It’s the most precious custom you chose
It’s shining, although you never meant for it to be

---

To Sacred AF 💫❤️‍🔥

In a moment of divine revelation
You burnt the old holy scripts,
Reclaiming the fiery wilderness
that paves the way to wholeness
You speak the truth, raw, unfiltered.
disrupting the noise that deafens others
Rising from the deep wounds,
decorating the permanent scars
With beautiful, mesmerizing tattoos
You chose yourself unapologetically.
Clipping the nails of society’s expectations
and growing sacred wings to break free.
Letting your sacred soul fly high,
a star that we can see, hold, and embrace.
You’re a mirage. Whenever we get close,
You move far away. We cherish you,
nevertheless, whether you’re close or far away.
You’re sacred, and you know it,
because you’ve earned it.

---

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*January 2026

To Una Rouquine

My space is an eternal womb,
where ancient verses resurface again.
Art Reincarnation is never linear,
for what echoed centuries ago,
can be born again with a unique scent.
The fragments of my Words breathe,
The oxygen of the reading eyes.
**
The confessions I make clearly
are buried behind a mysterious mask.
Only those who care, or resonate,
find meaning in my magical chaos.
These fragments coalesce together,
forming a mysterious lake.
***
I invite you to stay, to witness
The rebirth of a thousand cries.
Look deep into this magnificent lake,
If you find your reflections,
I promise you a journey through
the vast hills of my imagination.

---

To Asma

A wild storm raged across generations
left a shipwreck of a mind as inheritance
Life taught my mind to surf
the turbulent, traumatic waters.
I learned survival the hard way.
twisting my tongue to belong in
a society that showed no mercy.
***
However, I floated victoriously.
Now my words are scalpels,
precise in their surgery,
cutting into the very language
once wielded against me.
Language is not but a carrier,
of oppression, abuse, and violence.
***
At first, I mastered these words,
to merely survive the daily storms.
But now my words roar,
shaking the very foundations,
the grammar from which they emerged.
I no longer twist my tongue,
I sing freely in a thousand voices.

---

To Lishyx

Sorrow is the story of my life, yes,
But from it I weave beautiful verses.
I weep in words,
let stanzas spill from my veins
To redeem my inevitable essence.
***
My space is but a garden
where roses refuse to die
and leaves drip with acid rain.
Shattered glass fills my insides,
reflecting fragments of what was
and what waits ahead.
***
I carry the legacy of old wounds,
Yet I choose to let the ache linger.
Not because I hate myself,
But to keep this memory alive.
Forgetting won’t cure my sorrows,
I would rather wear them as armor.

---

To Fiona Bridges

In your fight against the damned void,
You write your verses raw and unfiltered.
Your ink flows directly from your heart,
unobstructed by societal norms and constructs.
You roar to break the system that breaks people,
Engaging the people you encounter along your way.
While others hide behind the veils of hypocrisy,
You stand proud, demolishing every single taboo.
You’re incredibly genuine yet fierce when needed,
Not shy to demand what’s right and wrong misdeeds.

---

To Dipti Vyas

I take pride in tricking people,
But for the sake of them showing up.
Emotions are a tangled mesh,
Though my craft creates an amazing simplicity.
I write with growing curiosity,
while carrying others’ words as torches.
***
We march carrying verses instead of swords,
resisting, revolting, and yearning for liberation.
However, to me, these sophisticated terms,
Come humorously with a cup of coffee.
I like drinking my cup with a dessert,
sweet, sticky, and impossible to resist!

---

To Priya Hinduja

I was born and raised in Wonderland,
And I bring wonders from there to share.
The amazing things I saw inspire me
to recreate them for others to enjoy.
My curiosity knows no bounds;
I keep learning from others’ work,
supporting them and sharing their sorrows.
I do this with genuine love,
never expecting anything in return.
***
In a world of chaos, I find order,
and in insanity, my sanity.
I see collapse all around,
Yet I find clarity—what a paradox!
Fiction is but a creative way
to explain the jargon that intellectuals preach.
Yes, I know, I believe in magic and fantasies,
But that doesn’t make me blind to reality.

---

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*December 2025

To Sara da Encarnação

From the ashes, I heard a voice.
Words reincarnated from fire.
I built a sanctuary from these ashes,
A refuge for the broken souls.
They rise high as survivors,
carving light from the darkness.
***
Art blends in my corner.
“Come as you are,
let the fire fuel your soul,
for your wounds are verses,
that acts as a weapon,
and offer you eternal shelter.”

---

To Mathew C. Bryant

Lights flickering on the horizon,
emerging from the gulf gothic.
“La Llorona” merging with the gothic,
inking permanent stories on my skin.
Childhood echoes, and bad tattoos.
Came to refine myself,
turning dark into shared drips.
Seeking fiction for that’s my craft,
But, poetry bled from skin that’s scarred.

---

To HVR

Thumbs have memory,
writing, turning it into testimony.
Tricultural Tension surface, pero
Lines turn into linking bridges.
My rap is an echo, a roar,
that weaves the tension into melody.
Pain is portable, carried away,
never caring if it’s too soon or too late.

---

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*November 2025

To A Writer’s Voice

“Writer’s voice is loud,
With letters screaming to be linked,
And the words yearning to get mingled.
The moment they find their footing, they play hide and seek.
Hide and seek with the meaning they need.
***
The seed they planted grew deep in the lyrical land,
With time, it developed into beads and strings.
Strings of melody and rhythmic beads.
***
The poet sought the flow of mind, but solace he redeemed.
In the end, the letters hugged, and the words embraced.
The meaning was the heaven they finally reclaimed.”

---

To Gary L Taylor

“Earphones in, eyes closed—the square warms under a clarinet sun.
Let me take you on a seasonal trip, with echoes of my deep breath.
Come fall, trees flare orange, wet leaves lie underneath.
I breathe fresh air, inhale music, and exhale dancing figurines…
Then winter arrives, and the cold breeze hushes the words—
They sleep on the page, a quiet, glittering frost, in a dormant state.
Spring loosens the air; sounds flourish after their long sleep,
waking bright and eager to be heard again.
At last, summer closes the tale:
melodies stroll the beach, bodies in light attire swaying to their beat.
****
My story is a gentle cycle:
Morning finds me awake, receiving a thin gold of inspiration from the rising sun.
At noon, I rest in a hammock beneath the tree, humming lightly through its guitar-shaped trunk.
By night, the moon calms my rhythm, it’s the nightstand light beside my bed, eyes drifting, I fall into sleep—
Ending my story, to begin all over again!

---

To Wildwood Writer

“Tonight, my ribs ring like small bells in a chapel no one visits.
My body is a sanctuary; bones are only the doors.
Marrow offers glimpses of the divine,
and the spine acts as a compass, as true north for the journey.
***
Wood is the bone’s kin—hard to the touch, yet delicate and hollowed with light.
Branches keep watch over a holy tree;
Its shade receives the traveler, a pause before the journey resumes.
***
Poems are open wounds—words crying to be heard.
Each verse echoes a loud cry from which the whole world trembles in agony.
Yet the tree gives its serum, a slow, amber medicine.
So I rest beneath the holy tree shade and cry my poems aloud—
wounding and healing over and over again, alone, and yet not alone.”

---

To Laura B Writing in the Shadows

“You write what the light is afraid to say,
You carry your pain as a torch, illuminating the way.
Your words are deep, written in an alleyway,
Darkness takes a seat to cry his sorrows away.
Then darkness fills this lyrical pathway,
And comedy blends with it in harmony.
Your verses offer the lost souls a sanctuary,
letting this unbearable life be just a child’s play.
Your wisdom doesn’t come out of cliches,
It is a story of a rebirth of a soul cast away”.

---

To Regolith

“You write from the regolith—
that quiet skin of dust where no one thinks roots can grow.
An old thin layer so ancient
that it guards old memories and secrets.
Scratching poems on its surface
leaves a mark in the dust that has remained undisturbed for ages.
***
You walk where others use a telescope,
Your words fly high to reflect the surface of brilliant stars.
Thoughts are merely meteorites
that punch small craters in daily life.
My poetry, inspired by the moon, the sand, and steel,
And your regolith is two different surfaces of the same cosmos.
Your language is inspired by archaic dust,
reviving what was always there and giving it a voice.”

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To dinan alasad | دِنان الأسد

“Dinan, your name already sounds like a poem,
a rhythm wrapped in a lion’s roar.
A lioness roaring stories about Sudan,
A cry heard in every corner of the world.
Your letters bear witness, not just to beauty,
but to war and displacement.
You write in English and Arabic, bridging two homes.
One you left behind, which still resonates in your soul,
Yet its shadow lingers in your new home.”

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To TwistTheStories

“Eyes of the eagle are my eyes!
I gaze deep into the horizon, and there lies a twist.
And then, further ahead, another twist.
Around me, everything bends and blurs in strange forms.
Twisted isn’t wrong—it’s truer than fact itself.
I refuse hard truths; they, too, carry hidden turns.
***
From darkness, I rise as lightning.
By normal standards, I am born abnormal.
I turn away from deceiving truths
to speak the twisted one—
the one that must be
seen through my eagle eyes.
I am what made me I am,
and I will become what I am meant to be.”

---

To B Philippe

“I am a conductor of a small poetry train,
roaming the land, announcing poetry stops.
I pick up poets and collect lyrical verses as tickets,
The last stop is the heaven of verses and stanzas.
***
Nevertheless, my train isn’t quite organized,
It’s not about comfort and usual,
but rather a refuge for strange feelings.
***
Yes, I am passionate about writing,
Yet I find pleasure in reading the craft of others.
For that, I keep driving the train of poets
to land in the wonderlands of words”.

---

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*October 2025

To Lyrics and Fire

In the vast ocean of melodies, I swam—
Diving deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit.
The descent felt eternal, yet waiting gave the journey its meaning.
****
Water and fire shape the essence of my being.
From their purity, I draw what sustains my art.
From water, my melodies gather their flow;
From fire, my lyrics blaze until they shine.
For that fire that fuels my music, I am grateful;
For the water that bore me, I endure.
****
Fire is my name, and music its reflection.
What I cultivate is mine and mine alone.
Whether one admires or turns away—
It matters not, for creation is its own reason.”

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To Tabiya Overhand

“With all due respect, all divine,
I keep looking around, keep praying in my own way,
to find the sacred rhythm of the world.
Subtle things happen around me; they guide me along the way.
Sometimes these small things hurt, yet hurt is a pathway to healing,
for I only truly understood my identity after a storm of hurtful traumas.
***
Walking the way of life, obstacles rise, and challenges appear in the most hidden ways.
I know I ought to be strong,
yet I know by heart I must be weak and vulnerable to be truly strong.
I don’t want a show of strength, but a quiet kind one-
one that wears a coat of resilience.
***
Light sometimes dims; sometimes it seems to cease.
Yet my essence holds a torch of light of its own,
and in the dark moments it shines to show me the way.
I will keep walking—on broad streets and through dark alleys—
fueled by my light, until I reach the true light at the end of the tunnel.”

---

To Adrião Pereira da Cunha

The poem is titled: “The Battle of the Eternal Allies, history and politics.”

“History yearns to be heard,
It has a heart of its own, lyrical beats echoing its eternal message.
History knows it repeats itself,
yet no one listens to the poems it writes for us to understand the pattern.
At night, it cries the ache of its eternal existence;
By morning, it fills the world with hope to do better and be better—
a day of its own with a cyclical nature.
***
Politics cannot be decoupled from this.
It just chooses the wrong means.
It ought to listen to the whispers of its old companion, history.
But politics is arrogant—always its way—neglecting history’s urgings:
“Do what ought to be done, what’s happened will happen all over again.
So, my friend, light their way to do exactly the same.”
***
We’re caught in the middle of these two warring factions that should be allies.
We find ourselves at a crossroads of remembrance and amnesia.
Politics is, nevertheless, not all bad;
at times, it gives glimpses of hope for what must be done.
Sometimes, a new way breaks the cycle and allows redemption to at least happen.
***
History yearns to be repeated,
while politics chants the song of change.
Our task then, my friends,
is to let them align in balance—
So change becomes the cycle history has always yearned for,
with a mix of spices offered by Politics,
the one that truly deserves to be repeated, finally and eternally!”

---

Brenda

“the wispher of the sentence”:
One day, I listened closely
and heard a sentence whisper.
I left a light on in the draft
so that the shy sentence could find her bed.
She is afraid of the dark,
so I don’t make her fake bravery —
I just let her be.
She doesn’t need to please anyone
or appease a crowded field.
I stroke her gently and let her fall asleep.
***
In her dream, she meets other sentences—
some as shy as herself,
Others are bright with confidence.
They join in quiet harmony,
beads on a single thread,
Unbothered by whether they carry a fact
or joyfully share a fiction—
each alive, maintaining their essence.
Yet, at times they blend—
a singular cocktail that soothes the reader,
and giving the page the breath it has always yearned.
***
The pages are signed;
footprints are left in the sand of time.
Page after page, they live—
in peace, in harmony, they mingle—
happily ever after,
then finally,
return to bed,
Just to start all over again.”

---

To Echoes From The Fire

“I learnt to pray first under foreign skies,
The only chapel roof was the moon shining among the stars.
I lived and prayed in the vast oceans and seas,
My compass was the roaring wind
***
One night, when I was on a ship,
I was fighting the angry waves.
At dawn, a glimpse of a distant land caught my eye,
I was almost there, yet I didn’t arrive.
***
Upon arrival, I made a campfire,
then looked deeply into it,
I was surprised to hear the flames talking,
whispering stories of passerbys since eternity.
***
My ears didn’t merely hear, but they listened,
I felt the presence of these ancient figures.
From that day on, fires became my refuge,
Listening to the flames became my guidance.”

---

To The Girl Who Caught Up ♡

“I stopped sprinting for a life that never waited,
and found the girl who’d been saving me a seat all along.
She was sitting on a bench in a beautiful park,
Reminding me of appreciating the present and its wonders.
***
I found her there, idle, curiously looking around,
holding a magazine while smiling at passersby.
She sees other kids fighting and shouting,
then goes up to the beaten kids, not to stand up for them,
but instead to remind them of the shared struggle.
***
She inspired me, so I took my work agenda book
And in it, I started scribbling words about change,
gently and slowly, to catch up with myself.
All the while, I look at the girl and see a familiarity,
until I realize that she had been me all along.
***
From that day forward, I kept on writing,
not caring about perfection or flawlessness.
My passion lies in the middle ground,
always composing half-finished letters and poems.”

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To अहम् भारतम्

“India is a living being,
Its rivers are its veins,
and the Himalayas are its spine.
Its cities are firing neurons
that form the collective mind,
And its sky is a temple dome.
***
I write to form a new map,
not drawn with borders,
but compassion.
In my verses lies a bridge,
between consciousness and the unconscious,
a bridge of mantaras and deep breaths.
***
Echoes of aham beat in me,
showing me how tiny the self is,
yet vast.
India is not simply a place,
but a beating pulse”.

---

To Teri Cook 🌸

“You sat under the shade of an old tree,
Then felt its wisdom filling your entirety.
You learned from it that miracles
start way underground, hidden from sight.
***
Everyone is praising the flowers,
Yet no one claps for the roots.
When you realized this truth,
You started writing about honesty,
genuineness that grows in a slow, rooted way”.

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To Where Wholeness Speaks

“Where others build stages,
You open a small room with windows and call it enough.
For you, just staying there, feeling the aura of the room,
Wholeness arises undisturbed by inherited stories.
***
You step out for a moment to wonder,
to breathe the fresh air that envelops your body.
Traveling to distant lands in the vast world,
with your body acting as a compass showing the way.
You preach long verses not about religion or politics,
You instead let the wholeness speak softly.”

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To Hannah Torkelson

“The sky above me emits bright light
that nourishes my dedication.
It always showed me that art has no strict form,
that it manifests in unexpected ways.
***
The world keeps flooding with words,
like a river that never tires from giving.
To me, words aren’t simply to be read,
but instead to be devoured with pleasure.
My appetite for written work exceeds that of food,
for I don’t get full after reading.”

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Written by © The stranger

*Writing is where my heart has chosen to stay. If these letters have kept you company, you’re welcome to help keep the ink flowing — one quiet coffee at a time.