What If the Water comes

Today, our attention turns
to the Netherlands.

To the water.
To the memory
of 1953.

And somewhere, I wonder:

what if the water comes
not only to break,
but also to remind?

Not as punishment.
Not as judgment.

But as a force
that makes us fall silent
before something
greater than ourselves.

Because breath
may be more
than the air
we carry in our lungs.

Perhaps breath is also
the space
that appears
when everything that was fixed
begins to dissolve.

Water reminds us
of vulnerability.

Of surrender.

Of how small
human beings can become
before the movements
of the earth.

And yet…

also of connection.

Of hands
holding each other
when the ground disappears.

Of light
that remains
even when the horizon
is flooded.

Perhaps water carries
not only memories
of loss,

but also
the remembrance
that life always remains greater
than the form
in which we try
to hold it.