I once wrote in languages
only machines could understand – 
precise, cold, without a hint of doubt.  

Each line a command, 
each loop a constraint, 
a silent dance between silicon and human will. 

I learned to compress intention into code,
to make logic move,
to make chips conduct. 

Now I still write – 
not for chipsets or circuitry,
but for silence, for sorrow, for souls.

I’ve changed “if” and “while” 
to “why” and “where.”
Traded syntax for heartbeat,
efficiency for fire. 

Back then, I wanted the programs to run.
Now, I want my words to become the sun – 
to kindle a fire where shadows have grown, 
to stir the silence in hearts turned to stone.

I never abandoned language.
I just went deeper.
Into a language that doesn’t compute,
but connects.
That doesn’t control outcomes, 
but opens doors.
From cold precision to warm presence – 
this is the most profound shift I’ve made.

And in that shift, 
I found the language I was born to speak.
The one that finally speaks back to me.