We were
two springs
before the river.

The mountain taught us
that clarity
is born

not from water,

but

from the stone
that yields.

We came down,
not seeking the sea,

but following

that quiet pull
all living things feel

toward
what calls them.

There were winters.

Stones.

Fallen trees.

There were days
when moving forward
was simply
another way
of breaking.

But water
never remembers
the shape
of its wounds.

One morning,

your current
entered mine.

And the river
found
its name.

After that,

light
learned
to carry
two shores.

Time,
learned
four names.

We watched
them leave,

the way
water
never stops
belonging
to its spring.

Now,

the river
no longer argues
with stone.

It bends.

It listens.

And when
the horizon
erases
the final shore,

the sea
is not waiting.

It knows us.

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