There is a solitude that comes before words, and one that waits for them. This poem is about the second kind — the moment you stop running from the quiet house and hear, at last, a voice that answers from inside it.
Evening comes down like an open hand.
I stop walking. I am not waiting for anyone.
On the lip of the old well, the water is still.
I lean over — and my own voice comes back.
It is simpler than I expected,
more worn, and more faithful too.
I do not ask it where the others have gone.
It answers: — You are still here.
So I take the road again,
slower now, with a steadier heart.
The well keeps what I told it.
The night gives me back my name.
Solitude is not a word to be afraid of. It is the room where we set down, one by one, the voices that were never ours — until only one remains, thinner and truer, promising nothing but staying. The courage is not in silencing it, but in listening, closing the door behind us, and walking on. Life does not reward the loudest; it recognizes those who dare to answer themselves, and who keep going.
