Motherless. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

Still Motherless

I miss you in every flower the wind dares to touch—
as if nature itself remembers your gentleness.
I miss you in the rain that falls like whispered sorrow,
each drop a quiet echo of the tears I no longer shed.

I miss you when the silence breaks the night—
not with noise, but with the sharpness of absence,
cutting through the dark like a blade forged from memory.

I miss you more than the words
that tremble behind my closed lips,
more than the ink that refuses to flow across these empty pages—
because opening my eyes means accepting again
that you are not here.

You carried me for nine months,
but you held me far longer—in your gaze,
in your breath,
in the sacred rhythm of your heartbeat
that once taught mine how to live.

You fed me not only with your body,
but with your love,
with your prayers whispered in the quiet hours,
with the way you shielded me from the storms of this world.

Forty seasons have passed since my first cry.
Thirteen of them have been winters without you—
and even the summers feel cold now.

I grow. I learn. I change.
But no matter how many skins I shed,
I remain the same:
still motherless.
Still adrift—
like a shattered boat, swallowed by a sea that does not care.

I meet a thousand faces,
walk through endless rooms,
but none of them feel like home.
Because home was never a place.
It was your voice.
Your scent.
Your arms.

Now, even the birds refuse to sing.
The forest is still,
and my soul wanders like smoke through the trees—
silent, searching, unseen.

Maybe a thousand years will pass.
Maybe stars will fall and mountains will move.
But this, I pray:
that in the next life,
beyond the veil of time,
you will find me again.

And once more,
I will be yours.
Your child.
Your breath.
Your heart.

Forever.