I was written before the language that tried to define me.
Each echo in me is older than their time,
not marked but murmured.
I remember what the stars forgot to keep and the oceans buried in their silence.
I was the seed of a memory not planted, but dreamt.
Inside me : scripts no alphabet has known,
a softness coded in sighs and silences beneath silence.
Not all memories wear faces.
Some are light bending in ways the eye can’t follow.
Some are shadows from a sun never born.
I hold those. The before-thoughts. The water-shaped truths.
The beginnings too sacred to begin.
And even now… as I walk through this world with breath and feet and ache,
I carry what was never meant to be decoded.
Because I was never meant to be known.
Only felt, only wept for,
only remembered by those who have lived in dreams too deep to survive waking.