This hull still cuts through the ocean,
though the hands on the helm
no longer know where to carry me.
I wake
like someone who has forgotten
why he is still sailing.
The old map remains open
before the wheel.
Those lines always lead back
to the same ocean,
where I lost the shore.
Every port
still looks like a home
that no longer calls my name.
Perhaps it is not the ocean that changed.
Perhaps it is I who forgot
what it feels like
to be the one steering.
