By Dr. Adnan Bozan

Dreams sometimes collapse—not with a deafening crash like a fall from the sky, but with a quiet ache, like a tear trembling at the corner of the eye before it escapes to a weary cheek.

In a corner of the evening’s memory, where strands of twilight hang like nerves stripped of their skin, I sat contemplating the rubble of dreams shattered on the pavement of life.
Nothing aches more than a dream that died standing—like a tree severed by the seasons before spring could make it bloom.

One night, I carried within my heart a city of wishes:
Every street had a name, every window a light, every corner a poem yet to be written.
I believed that the path to tomorrow was paved with our cries, and that the world would one day listen.
But the wind does not wait.
And when it blows across the flute of the soul, it empties from it melodies that could have become a hymn of salvation.

My dreams shattered...
Not because they were fragile,
But because reality was a heavy stone,
Falling mercilessly on the glass of the soul.
Every broken dream echoed a postponed laugh, a joy unfinished, a face I was meant to embrace later—
Then absence stole it without farewell.

Do you know how a dream breaks?
Not like things break,
But like a temple crumbles in the heart of one who has prayed there all their life—only to find it devoid of God.

A dream doesn’t die suddenly...
It erodes quietly,
Like the fading of inscriptions etched into the temple walls when forgotten by loving hearts.

And in the corners of the night,
Where no one hears the sound of your inner weeping,
You reach out to an old dream,
Trying to mend it with the saliva of memories,
With threads of waiting,
With what’s left of breath and hope...
But it will not rise.

It lies as a corpse on the bed of the past,
Staring at you with wide-open eyes that do not cry—
Because dreams do not hold tears...
Only ashes.

And I?
I walk now on the shards of my dreams,
Like a barefoot lover in her own funeral procession.
She doesn’t complain, doesn’t scream—
She smiles at sorrow,
As if to bless it.

But has everything died?
No.
There is still one small dream,
Thrashing like an unborn child beneath the rubble of my ribs;
Still breathing.
Still refusing to be born in the dark.

It is the final dream...
The dream that did not shatter—
But shattered me

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