He rises from the hush of black
a face carved in stormlight
each droplet a secret
clinging to the skin of silence
each bubble a memory
of depths not meant for lungs

The water has written its story
in silver beads across his cheek
a scripture of salt and persistence
an alphabet only the drowned
and the risen can read

His eyes hold the echo of thunder
not pleading, not soft
but sharpened by the current
they belong to one
who has stared into the river’s throat
and returned unbroken

His brow is a battlefield
furrows forged by the collision
of fear and defiance
The mouth stays closed
a gate locked against the collapse
of breath into darkness

He is not clean
he is not free
but he has emerged
the water refuses him no longer
And in this cinema of shadows
the silence roars louder than any tide
every droplet burning like firelight
in the dark theater of his skin

He is a survivor
stitched together by rain
by storm
by the unrelenting hand of the sea

And still he stands
face dripping
eyes alight
a man baptized
by the violence of water