"Resonance‪"‬

"Resonance"


Seeds.


I buried a word in the ground,

where the rain cried,

an autumn day,

and the memory sprouted.


Fingers stuck in the dirt,

they built secret worlds,

under roots and forgetfulness,

Silent night flowers.


I used to play on the old sidewalk,

with a broken ball,

every bounce brought

dreams in the dust.


Bloody knees,

and the mother's voice,

edge in the twilight light,

tender seed in the chest.


The smell of morning

in tattered blankets,

and the father's voice —

an echo in an empty room.


I opened my eyes hesitantly,

as if I were waking up for the first time,

every dawn, a promise

which I still didn't know how to pronounce.


The sun was unfurling wrinkles

on grandma's hands,

who embroidered stories

in faded fabric.


Everything in her gaze

a key to invisible doors,

that I never dared

to open to the end.


The gravel crunches on the road,

in summers without shoes,

and we ran until we felt

that we are light and nothing else.


An empty tin can,

a flag in our hands,

and the world —

a field for revolutionaries.


In the corner of the yard

I buried secrets:

a button, a broken coin,

and a piece of me.


The years passed,

but the earth did not forget,

and slowly, silently,

everything was blooming again.


Behind the bed

I hid fears and letters,

all written in a secret language

that only I understood.


A child learns first

to hide from his dreams,

before he learned to hunt them

with open eyes.


At the edge of the beach,

with wet clothes,

we stood trembling

from joy and ignorance.


Every wave a triumph,

every whisper of the wind

a promise

that nothing truly ends.


At train stations,

sitting on rusty benches,

We were changing trains we would never take,

with the certainty of children.


Our fingers were grasping the air,

as if we could hold

all departures

in a single breath.


A bicycle without a chain,

in a courtyard full of voices,

the sound of the rusty saddle

It sounded like distant laughter.


How many afternoons were words not needed,

except for the creaking

of an old, unforgettable hope.


A swing in the old tree,

to tilt dangerously,

and we push harder,

asking for heaven with every swing.


We didn't know yet.

that the world had weight,

only that he seemed light-hearted

when we closed our eyes.


In a shady corner of the park,

we planted flowers from plasticine,

smiling in certainty

that someday they will bloom.


And if they ever withered,

we weren't there to see it —

only dreams remain

always blooming somewhere.


A painted map

with markers that smelled of summer,

ships, dragons, and islands —

all on one sheet of paper.


The world was so small,

as much as could fit on a table,

and so endless,

as much as the terror of the first exploration.