Here, in the Downpour—
Foreign streets.
Unknown voices, vowels stretched like violin strings,
each syllable trembling at the edge of song.
The rain knows my name—whispers it in rivulets,
folding me into its endless chorus.
I step into the hush of wet stone,
where every reflection is a doorway,
every shadow a guide.
The air tastes of metal and memory,
of journeys not yet spoken aloud.
A beginning.
A baptism.
The storm gathers me whole,
washing away the maps I carried,
leaving only the pulse of my own footsteps,
louder than thunder, softer than prayer.
