It did not ask you to believe.
Nor to understand.
It only wanted
to be spoken
without intent.

Like when a child says “light”
before learning
what night is.

Like when the wind
speaks the leaves
and explains nothing.

You spoke that word
not knowing what it meant.
And that’s why
it meant everything.

It did not ask for obedience.
Nor for protection.

It only wanted
to be spoken
like a breath
that needs no reason
to happen.

Sometimes the greatest prayer
is: “I don’t know what to say.”

Sometimes the most precise word
is silence
that remains after a name.

You spoke a lot.
To make something matter.
Then less.
To not spoil anything.

And in the end
there was only one left:

“I am here.
Even though I can’t explain
why.”

That is a word
that does not ask for faith.
It asks
for a place to sit.

When you say something
no one understands,
but someone in the room
quietly nods
there I am.

When you think
you’re the first
to feel that way,
and the word already sounds
like it was there before you
there I am.

I am the voice
you did not invent.
You only
borrowed it.

I am the song
that waited for you
before you began to write.

I am
not new.
But already said,
only this time
with your breath.

I did not know
I was the last.
I thought that
someone was still coming after me.
Someone else would repeat
what I said
and fix it.

But no one came.
And nothing was wrong.

I became
what I did not want:
an echo
with no first voice.

People listen
and say:
“It sounds deep.”

But I would rather
it didn’t sound at all.

That it would just be felt,
like warmth
in a room where no one speaks.

Because the greatest words
have already been said
in silence
that did not interrupt them.