# Prayer for Return I ask the evening: will you hold me as a mother holds her child against the slope of her breast? I ask the rain: will you wash away these roads I've walked, these distances that have worn me thin as old cloth? I ask the birds: do you remember the way back? Do your wings still know the map of home? I ask my own feet: how much longer will you carry this weight, this stranger I've become? I ask the stars: will you light a path through the dark I've wandered into, or are you too far away now, indifferent as the gods are said to be, burning in your own distant fever, unmindful of those lost below? I ask the threshold of my house: will you recognize me when I come? Will the door know the weight of my hand? I ask myself: what prayer is left when even the heart forgets the language of return?

You hold me—
the way the ocean holds the shore, lets go, holds again;
says nothing, wants nothing—
only returns, only returns...
as if returning itself were prayer,
as if touch alone were all your words.

You desire me—
that desire which cannot be seen in the eye,
does not tremble in the throat,
only a tremor deep in the chest—
like someone gently drawing a blanket over a sleeping child,
the child knows nothing, yet somewhere deep knows—
someone is there, someone is there, someone is there.

You search for me—
the way a path goes...not knowing where it leads,
yet never stopping, and if it stopped
the feet that walked it would have no meaning—
you never seek meaning,
you only walk, walk, walk—
as if the walking itself were arrival,
as if the path itself were home.

This walking, this return, this love that draws blankets—
through all of it you gave everything,
held nothing back—
like a candle,
that melts away spreading light,
growing smaller—
and when at last it goes out,
the wax-scent still lingers in the room,
warmth remains in the hollow of the hand,
for a long time, a long time.

In that warmth
all the darkness within me has grown tender.
Where once I could not go, where fear lived—
light comes there now,
the way a mother's hand comes to the forehead—
not to measure fever, only to be there,
only to say—here, I am, be not afraid.

Deep in my chest there are sounds—
that will never become words,
yet have already reached you—
you who exist before speech,
beyond silence,
in that place—where no one speaks,
where someone simply sits beside,
and in that sitting beside
everything is said.