Ellerimde Kan

Somewhere between the street noise and the whispers of memories lives a voice that needs no justification. It contains road dust, traces of old battles, and that same tired rasp that makes it clear: he survived not by a miracle, but by stubbornness. There's no time for complaints here - it's just a chronicle of survival, told with proud weariness. Each line smells like smoke and iron, and they contain more truth than all the confessions in the world. 27 years old, gray hair at the temples, and streets that know my name better than my passport. But somewhere beneath all that armor, that same child is still breathing - with broken hands and the belief that even in the mud, you can stay clean.