I know the city by its roads,

By the broken corners,

The impatient horns,

The tea stalls still open at midnight,

The streets where I have brought

Someone else’s hunger

To someone’s doorstep.

I am a delivery man.

Sometimes I carry food.

Sometimes I carry a story in my head.

Sometimes, on the way back,

I carry nothing

Except the weight of my own thoughts.

But the road has taught me something—

A man can be tired

And still not be defeated.

I have ridden through rain

When the sky seemed to want

To drown the whole city.

I have pedaled when my muscles said,

“Enough.”

I have raced against others

And against myself.

There are days when I am fast.

And there are days

When I am simply trying

To get from one place to another.

Perhaps that is what rebellion is.

Sometimes.

It is not a loud word

Or a broken bottle.

It is beginning again

When yesterday has given you

Every reason not to. 

I write because some voices

Never find a microphone.

I ride because some roads

Are worth finding on your own!

I deliver because someone is waiting.

And I keep doing these things

Because dreams do not always come

With money, applause,

Or a smooth road to roll on!

Somewhere along the way,

People have helped me

When they did not have to!

A customer telling me

To stay safe on the road!

Someone offering me food,

Someone tipping more

Than I expected!

And once, when I was late

With a birthday cake,

I left a small birthday wish

With the delivery!

It was only a few words.

But sometimes

A few words are enough.

There were also people

Who believed in me! 

When I was not expecting it!

A talent platform where I participate from time to time helped me

At times when I needed it,

In a way I did not see coming.

I learned that help

Does not always arrive

When you ask for it,

Sometimes it simply finds you.

I have learned to respect

The person riding beside me,

Whether he is first or last,

Because what is a finish line

If we forget

The struggle of the road!

I do not believe

One human being was born

To stand on another’s neck.

I do not believe

A poor man’s silence

Makes a rich man’s voice

More meaningful.

I do not believe

A woman’s dream

Needs a man’s permission to breathe.

I believe we were born

As people first.

Our names,

Our jobs,

Our money,

Our countries,

Our flags—

All of that comes afterwards.

And if my voice is small,

Let it be heard.

If my bicycle is old,

Let its wheels keep turning.

If my writing is unfinished,

Let me write another line.

If I fall,

Let the road know

I was here.

I have carried enough

Of other people’s orders.

Now I carry my own—

A little courage,

A little anger,

A little love,

And a pocketful

Of unfinished dreams.

When the road rises before me,

I will not ask it

To become easier.

I will simply pedal.

For the rider

Who refuses to stop.

For the worker

Who refuses to disappear!

For the writer

Who refuses to remain silent!

For every human being

Still looking for a road

Where nobody has to walk

On the back of another.

The wheel turns.

I turn with it.

And as long as I have breath

Left in my lungs,

“I will keep moving,

but I will never learn to bow.”