Curtain Call

“All the world’s a stage,” and we its cast,

Composed of shadows, our scripts vast.

Lines are heavy, our roles unclear,

Bound by illusions, we cradle fear.

Nightmares rise, their smoke entwined—

Who wrote this play? Can I rewind?

The playwright hides, the stage feels tight,

The actor is lost in endless night.

But then, the veil lifts, and now I see:

This play is not my destiny.

Could the actor be the playwright as well? 

“All the world’s a stage,” and we its cast,

Composed of dreams, our griefs surpassed.

Lines flow freely, our roles aligned,

Freed from illusions, no chains that bind.

Daylight breaks, its warmth unwinds—

Who writes this play? The divine designs.

The playwright laughs, the stage feels wide,

The actor now dances, and joy abides.