Migrations

I.

Life, at first, is an exile—

from the sea,

from the warmth of the maternal amnios.

It is a departure from the timeless night,

where everything was known—

a night without form,

without time,

without distance.

Here, only essence lingers,

like a subtle fragrance

perhaps of orange blossom,

or rose,

adorning this night

in which our voices meet.

II.

The song of the cicadas surrounds us.

Fireflies flicker across the fields.

After dinner,

we speak of sacred geometry

and the origin of things:

the unfolding spiral,

scented petals on the table.

Our laughter rises toward the heavens.

Everything bears witness to our lightness.

At dawn,

we awaken

to the hush 

of lapping waves on the shore.

III.

We walk.

With each step 

we affirm our fall to Earth—

Even as our spine 

pulls magnetically to the stars.

The globe spins in its orbit,

turning through the galaxy.

The Milky Way carries us.

We will never return to this place.

Our lives are an offering—

of breath,

wonder, 

and song—

rose petals floating on a greater current,

and the stars are our kin.

—Lorena Wolfman (2017, Translation 2025)