Imprint

Imprint


Engraving


Inheritance


The names on the walls are carved with a fingernail,

every letter and a promise left in the air,

the soil still holds the smell of wet lime,

where the ancients built their silence.


It's not just stones piling up on the horizon,

are the voices that whisper as dusk falls,

Everything we inherited bears the weight of time,

a reminder that nothing is ever completely lost.


My hands seek the texture of old objects,

There dwells the truth that needs no words,

History is not a book locked away on shelves,

It is the pulse I feel in my veins.


I stand in the place designated by others,

recognizing my gaze in the faces of the old,

Heritage is the bridge that connects yesterday,

with the breath I take now, looking at the light.


First reading


The book opens to the page with the yellowed leaves,

words are like footprints in melting snow,

every sentence hides a secret that seeks light,

a path that was laid out before me.


I read the names of the cities that changed shape,

the movements of populations during the night,

the story here is not distant or foreign,

it is the scar that the map bears on his skin.


I'm trying to understand the meaning of patience,

how they endured time without completely breaking down,

the experience becomes mine as I describe it,

a continuity that does not allow for forgetting.


I close my eyes and hear their footsteps on the street,

those who passed before I uttered a voice,

reading becomes a rite of memory,

an acceptance that I am part of this chain.


Place of memory


The house on the corner has windows that look out onto the sea,

The shutters creak as if they want to tell a story,

every crack in the floor is a path,

where my ancestors set foot in search of a harbor.


This soil is not just dirt and stone,

is the accumulation of work and sweat,

every estate has its own written history,

in a language that only the roots understand.


In the garden the trees grow with patience,

showing the way to heaven,

The place holds me bound with invisible threads,

that do not allow the gaze to stray far away.


Here memories take the shape of objects,

a rusty key, a cup without a handle,

Place is the container that holds time,

until the meaning of staying becomes mine.