A true story

He came from the sea, looking for a poem; trying to find unimagined wonders.

The traveler was amazed with the water. No water like this, not in the region of his ancestors. He cannot remember his way back; he does not need it –what he searches for is not in the past.

He dives into the depths of his heart, he finds nothing but light. Then, the birds call his attention as his feet touch the shore. A shore of sand and pebbles that make him feel the tenderness of his feet, and his skin against the wind.

O yes, the brightness of the sun as he never saw it before. Thin, tall walls describe the path he will walk in this foreign land.

He wonders, however, how foreign is a land for which he has longed since birth?

Are longing and knowing the same thing?

Is it not longing produced when we are deprived of something that became –or perhaps always was—so natural to us?

I long for that which was always there, and now it is no more. Truth is, some things in ourselves are older than we are; some things within us were missing –and were present—before we were who we are.

Love and hope, and fear, were in me before I called it me. And it is not mere chronology. Love, and hope, and fear in me, were created when I was created, but they were created, in me, old. I was born anew but love and hope (and all) were born old. And nevertheless, their oldness is renewed at every breath, at every tear, at every scream.

How can love and hope be old if they renew me; if they come anew with the hours, and the days, and the seasons?

I was born knowing love and hope. Even if I do not know how to love, or how to hope, I have known them since birth. Even if I could not call their names, I know love; and I know hope.

Had I not known them from before, I could not recognize them when they come, or miss them when they are gone.

Love and hope are older than my soul, and yet, newer than my latest thought.

JHS
+Mateo Andres