What are we,
if not the flicker of a lantern
in a forest no map can name?
You, the flame-
steady, unyielding.
I, the shadow-
stretching, bending,
always returning to your glow.
We are not a story told,
but the silence between its lines,
the breath held before a truth is spoken.
Not a destination,
but the path worn soft
by the weight of our steps together.
What about us?
We are the questions
no answers can satisfy,
the tide meeting the shore-
neither conquering,
neither retreating,
both becoming.
We are not forever,
and yet, we are endless,
an echo folding into itself,
resounding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem