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Poem

My first home had no walls or windows; it was a warm, wordless place, enveloped in the beating of a heart,
My mother's womb, that dark cathedral of safety where time didn't know how to count the days,
Nor was pain allowed to enter that silent sanctuary, where silence was a sacred vow,
I didn't know I existed, but she did, loving a ghost, nurturing a spark, carrying a voiceless soul.
I was just a whisper in her blood, and yet she gave me everything, without asking for any proof of existence,
Without senses, yet she sang to me, and I kicked, and she smiled, I floated and she prayed in silence.
Now I am born into this second home, this strange world spinning with bleeding skies,
With mouths that lie and open wounds, and I wonder why it hurts so much to be here, to feel everything.
I am again without senses, not because I cannot feel, but because I feel too much,
The noise is deafening, and the loneliness in the crowd is like an echo of lost silence,
Where is that old stillness, that sacred hum of her heartbeat, carrying me like a song?
Now I hear only clocks and deadlines, voices too sharp to comfort me in this turmoil.
I came from a home where I was loved before I was real, and now I am here, real and unrefined,
Asking this second home to love me half as gently, to allow me just to exist,
To find stillness amid the chaos, to revive that primordial peace in the heart of this world,
And to simply be, without getting lost in the deafening noise of existence.

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