🎵 Where You End, I Begin

[Verse 1]
You’re not just a shadow, you’re a wound and you’re a shelter,
a line of light that cuts through all my fear.
When everything in me is breaking into dust,
you’re still the quiet breath that calls me back to origin.

[Verse 2]
Love is not a story, it’s a hard liturgy,
a silent rite of two hearts before the Unknown.
Every tenderness is fragile Eucharist with no guarantee,
every “stay” a whispered prayer on the edge of the abyss.

[Chorus]
Where you end, I begin,
on a thin bright thread between the fire and the stone.
Not above you, not below,
but side by side in quiet, holy light.

[Verse 3]
I can’t promise forever – that’s not in human hands,
but I can stay true to what you woke in me:
the one who doesn’t run from his own abysses anymore,
but carries them bare before the Face that knows all names.

[Verse 4]
If love is a judgment, it’s not a court for punishment,
it’s the place where truth stands upright, however much it hurts.
We come with no disguises and no borrowed crowns,
dust and glory in one breath, and still we are received.

[Chorus]
Where you end, I begin,
with no cheap vows of “always”, only a vow not to lie.
Not above you, not below,
but shoulder to shoulder before the One who sees it all.

[Bridge]
Maybe love is just a bridge over the emptiness,
one we cross alone and yet arrive together.
Not to own each other like trophies of survival,
but to return each other free – and choose again, and again.

[Final Chorus]
Where you end, I begin,
and if we fall, let us fall into the same light.
Not above you, not below,
but side by side, as far as Spirit leads.

Lalu Metev, February 2, 2026.  

I begin in the threshold where a word is not yet born and silence still remembers its breath. I write to shape what insists on being carried forward — not as ornament, but as revealed truth. My practice moves like inner weather: shifts of memory, tenderness, and the questions that refuse to leave us. Genres are rooms of one house — poems, essays, fragments, genealogies, musical sketches — each a voice in a single resonant chord. Even silence has its essential place in that chord. I attend to the small gestures that disclose identity; to the secret bridges between private life and collective memory; to the quiet architecture of the spirit that needs no ceremony. My aim is language that opens rather than decorates — windows through which readers encounter their own inner sky. Form, conscience and intimacy guide me: introspection keeps me honest; conceptual shape grants the invisible weight; moral sensibility anchors each phrase. My professions — poet, publicist, jurist — lean together: law sharpens clarity, poetry humbles certainty, philosophy teaches listening to what is unsaid. If a single thread unites my work, it is this: to transmute vulnerability into luminous strength and to make silence a place of meaning. I am Lalu Metev — Bulgarian poet, essayist and jurist. I write to preserve what is delicate and essential in the human spirit, to follow traces of memory and dignity, and to find where the personal meets the universal. This is the path I walk; this is the voice I follow; this is the presence I offer.