— I. Memory of the Wound —
My wounds were mended
by my silence,
my capillaries
became a home for scars.
I did not bow my head
before my battles.
I smiled,
and the sun wept before me.
Then I became silent,
so that the forgotten footsteps
could echo
within me.
The voices of children,
the self I had forgotten,
returned like distant shadows.
Every wound
was a letter,
every letter
a heartbeat.
I am a sentence
written upon my own skin,
still unfinished.
— II. The Music of the Fracture —
Something broke inside me.
Its sound
never reached the outside.
Perhaps every fracture
matures
within its own silence.
I am a breath
left behind the glass,
a window mistaking
tears for vapor.
No one heard it.
Sometimes
even I did not hear
the echo of my heart
when it struck against itself.
The wind passed through.
The emptiness within me
found a little voice.
At that moment I understood
that breaking apart
is also a music
for those who can hear.
I heard it.
Like a thin ache
on the silent strings
of a violin,
in the sigh
of a woman,
in the trembling voice
of a child
saying mother.
Yes, I broke.
But at the edge of the fracture
there is still light.
That light
is more real
than all the songs.
— III. Ashes in the Mirror —
One morning,
I looked into the mirror.
There were the ashes
of an old fire
upon my face.
Time is a master
at leaving traces,
as if each day
it erased and rewrote me.
Behind my eyes
a stranger was wandering.
Someone familiar,
yet someone
whose name I had forgotten.
"Is this me?" I asked.
My voice
could not pass
to the other side of the glass.
Everything I once believed in
stood within me
like a silent layer of ash.
I burned with the ashes,
yet I have not gone out.
Beneath the ashes
a warmth still remains.
Perhaps hope
is this silent,
this stubborn.
The mirror remained silent.
I remained silent.
In that silence,
I recognized myself again.
When I look back
at the past,
I do not cry.
I only smile a little,
like touching
a place that has burned
with tenderness.
— IV. The Tears of the Sun —
In the quietest place
of the night,
I heard a voice.
Perhaps it was me,
perhaps
the breath of morning.
The sky was heavy.
A line appeared
on the horizon.
The sun was rising
with tears.
There was a warmth
in those tears,
so familiar,
so human.
I cried too.
This time,
not from pain.
My tears were like
the first rain
falling upon the earth,
carrying the hope
of a new sprout.
For a moment,
a light passed
through my heart.
My wounds
turned into pale rose petals
in that light
All my sorrows,
all my absences,
were pieces
of a melody.
The sun became silent.
I heard it.
I heard
that even light
can weep.
At that moment
I learned:
sometimes crying
is another way
of being born again.