Wanderlust of the Soul
I hear it again, the call from afar—
a melody of waves flooding my veins,
a wind stirring forgotten dreams.
The horizon, a silent guardian,
bows to my longing but reveals nothing.
So I set forth toward the unknown,
where sky still kisses earth,
before night drowns all in shadow.
Here, nothing holds me.
Not even the memory of your hand,
which once slipped from mine like a withered leaf—
a farewell that echoed into nothingness.
Yet in this emptiness, a seed grows:
Wanderlust whispers of coasts
no moonlight has yet grazed,
of shores parting like lips at dawn,
ready to breathe secrets.
I seek no islands of certainty,
but the horizon’s tremor
as it bends before the first step.
Perhaps I’ll soon carry the pain of silence
more lightly—as a mantle of stars,
warming me on this new shore,
feet buried in gold of unfamiliar sand,
heart full of questions scattered by the wind.
And there, beneath the foreign sun,
I already feel them: hands
that no longer withdraw,
but fill the space between us—
with warmth needing no words,
with laughter that tastes of salt on skin,
hinting of adventure.
Perhaps all the waiting was a river
meant to carry me here—
to you, who at the edge of the world
have always waited
for the echo of my footsteps.
– Anonymous
