I no longer ask the sea to explain the world.
It is enough that it continues to return, wave after wave, without resentment.
The trees do not argue with the wind. They endure, and in enduring they still offer shade.
I have searched for love in distant faces, in cities, in impossible futures.
Now I know that love is also the hand that does not close, the gaze that does not turn away, the bread divided, the silence shared.
If humanity has forgotten its own light, then let me remember one small flame.
Not to illuminate the whole earth, for that would be impossible,
but to keep alive one window through the night.
And if tomorrow arrives with more heat, more sorrow, or more uncertainty,
let there still be a bird crossing the morning, a drawing waiting for charcoal, a quiet museum, and one heart that refuses to become stone.
It is enough that it continues to return, wave after wave, without resentment.
The trees do not argue with the wind. They endure, and in enduring they still offer shade.
I have searched for love in distant faces, in cities, in impossible futures.
Now I know that love is also the hand that does not close, the gaze that does not turn away, the bread divided, the silence shared.
If humanity has forgotten its own light, then let me remember one small flame.
Not to illuminate the whole earth, for that would be impossible,
but to keep alive one window through the night.
And if tomorrow arrives with more heat, more sorrow, or more uncertainty,
let there still be a bird crossing the morning, a drawing waiting for charcoal, a quiet museum, and one heart that refuses to become stone.
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