Japan

The first step on this soil, heavy with time,
I sink into the earth—rooted, yet drifting.
A whisper from the mountains, a pull from the sea,
The air tastes old, yet new—each breath, a prayer.

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Streets hum beneath my feet,
A quiet rhythm, ancient yet unwritten,
Not for tourists, nor for those who stay,
But for the ones who come seeking silence.

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I pass under gates, not to enter,
But to acknowledge what has always been.
The weight of history does not press,
But it lingers, an echo in every stone, every tree.

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