There was a moment
when the world split
metal screamed,
time shattered,
and I fell into a silence
that did not feel like silence.
My left leg
once a quiet companion of distance and dreams
became a battlefield.
A subtrochanteric fracture,
a distal fracture of the femur
words the doctors spoke calmly
while my bones whispered fire.
Pain was not a cry.
It was a country
I was forced to live in.
I learned the language of ceilings,
counted cracks in white hospital walls,
measured nights
not by hours
but by pulses of ache
climbing from bone to breath.
I missed walking
the way deserts miss rain.
Missed standing
like a tree trusts the earth.
But inside the breaking
there was something
that did not fracture.
Hope
stitched quietly
like metal plates under skin.
Courage
screwed deep into the marrow.
I am not only
the accident.
Not only
the shattered femur.
I am the slow rising.
The trembling first step.
The stubborn heartbeat
that refused to surrender.
Yes, my bones broke.
But something in me
refused to.
And that
that is how I survived.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem