I heard a voice. I thought it was you, threading the memory of our knitted home, a cloth of the unknown, sheltering as a place called love. Longing feeling at home, when I see myself through the mirror of time. My reflection paints a gift, called sun, putting forth a dream: the birth of our breath, as drawing ourselves with freedom, being from outside the space that limits us. Longing feeling at home, the place, called ‘I’, is not enough to give me the solace a mirror of memoirs can't bring. If I don't dissolve myself, losing all sadness, facing all madness that is knowing but not being, that is speaking but not understanding, that is threading but not becoming something more than a cloth that hides you from me, me from you, something more than a place, a space, a face, a gaze, our unconditional home.
Is love our real home? This poem is dedicated to all of those who spend their lives searching for their home. The search is tiring if you do not know that home is always within you, with the love you are and the love you can give to all. There are times when we prefer to hide our real faces for fear of getting known, because by knowing one has find who one is. Who are we? If we lose the cloth that covers our perception of ourselves and face what is unknown about us, what would happen? What is beyond the fog of our memories? Can we integrate with memories in such a way we become free of them using them? Each day is a new opportunity to glow as if nothing covered us, a new sun, full of love.