The wound remains open

 Then the images awaken

a summer field,

the heat clinging to the skin,

the laughter that was lost,

the voices that never returned.

And I, half here,

half elsewhere,

count the beats of my heart

as if they were steps

on a road that never ends.

But perhaps this is the truth:

there is no return,

only a path forward,

with memory

becoming a mark and a guide.

And if the wound does not close,

it is because inside it

is kept the salt of the sea,

the sound of the waves,

the voice that whispered my name

on nights without a moon.

But I have learned to walk

beside silence,

to hold it by the hand

like an old acquaintance,

to fear neither the void

nor the absence.

Each day I plant small roots

in foreign soil,

and they bloom hesitantly,

as if testing

whether this earth

can become home.

And when the wind carries

again the scent of thyme,

it no longer hurts as it once did;

it is like a greeting

from a life that shaped me,

but no longer keeps me captive.

And I,

who once was

a cog in a foreign machine,

now turn

to my own rhythms.

The wound remains open,

but it no longer bleeds—

it is a window

through which light enters.