Word
A word arrives
late, or not at all.
It tries to name the world,
but the world has already hidden.
Each syllable is a tiny gesture,
a spark of life in the void.
It promises nothing.
It leaves nothing.
It exists only
because someone insists on speaking.
Sometimes it fails.
Sometimes it betrays.
Sometimes it ignites
what cannot endure.
And yet,
even empty,
even lost,
the word continues.
Because without it
there would be no trace,
no memory,
no presence.
Word is the minimum that remains
when everything collapses.
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