I left the only place I had ever called home without a suitcase, without a word. (But the dust followed me.) I crossed a border that was nothing more than a line in the sand. (It cut deeper than bone.) I tried to speak my name aloud in the crowd of strangers. (It was not recognized.) I walked the streets that had promised kindness to every wanderer. (But I was not a stranger, only forgotten.) I built a fragile house out of letters, promises, and broken words. (The wind unmade it each night.) I received envelopes sealed by hands I could no longer remember. (I burned them for warmth.) I dreamed of the city where the bells once called my name at dusk. (The gates closed tighter in my sleep.) I kept walking, step by step, until every road became another country. (Every silence another language.) I am still moving, carrying the exile with me like a shadow. (But there is nowhere left to arrive.)
