I seek a dawn that knows my name,
a ray of sunlight
that does not pass beyond my window
like a distracted stranger.
I seek a voice
capable of crossing through the noise,
of resting on my shoulders
like a hand that asks for nothing.
I walk,
and the roads stretch beneath my steps,
stone serpents
that swallow the distances.
Around me,
the cities speak languages of light,
but my heart still listens
to a distant music.
I seek what time
has hidden in its pockets,
a scent,
a half-open door,
the warmth of an evening
that remains lit in memory.
Sometimes nostalgia
is a bird without a sky:
it beats its wings within my chest
and finds nowhere to rest.
And I let it fly.
Because perhaps I am not seeking a home,
nor a road,
nor a place marked upon the earth.
I seek that little space
where the heart ceases to be a stranger,
where even silence
speaks my name.
Perhaps it is there
that what I seek awaits me:
not at the end of the journey,
but within every step
that, despite everything,
continues toward the light.
