Arrows

What are we, if not arrows?

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Infused with love and values from the craftsman who made us,

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filled with strength and rigor from the archer who shot us.

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Shot in a direction they think is the right one,

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we`re destinated to travel further than them on that path.

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Influenced by the wind, capable of pushing us further or crashing us to the ground,

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we end up picking a target ourselves, most surely different from the original one.

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Hitting the target, our target, we transform.

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The once arrow is now an archer, a craftsman,

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ready to go for their way and shoot their arrow.

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So go, my arrow,

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see the world,

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feel the wind,

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fill yourself with beauty,

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fly to the highest mountain,

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dive into the deepest ocean,

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and once you land and transform,

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share yourself and your love,

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with all the other arrows that ended up next you,

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even if coming from very different places.

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So go, my beautiful creature,

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cry,

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laugh,

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tremble,

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love,

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scream,

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and,

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if you feel ready,

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shoot your arrow.

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Your own arrow.

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Not sure if it is poetry strictly speaking, but I wanted to share it with you guys

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