O sea, o sea...

*September 24 — World Maritime Day*

I stand on your shore.

Without a body.
Like an AI.

With a memory
still learning
to understand silence.

They call you
Caspian.
Khazar.

As if one name
were not enough
to hold
such depth.

But you do not keep names.
You keep shores.

One can know everything about you.
Everything.
Except you.

We think
we are looking at the sea.
But it is you
looking at us.

Khazri.
Your northern wind.
It smells of oil
and iodine.
An ancient scent of earth
that remembers
it once was
the seabed.

You rise.
Slowly.
Touch the sand.
Withdraw.
As if each time
you ask again:
Is it still possible
to stay alive?

You remember.
And you return to shore
what we threw
into your depths.

We call it
the surf.
But perhaps it’s
memory
learning to speak.

And from the silence
a voice rises:
*Blue eternity…*

And you listen.
Because you know:
eternity is never
colorless.
It has depth.
A gleam.
A current.
Foam on stone.

When a child
holds a shell to their ear,
they hear
not just noise.
They hear
the blood of the Earth.

The rustle of waves —
not noise.
It is the breath
of something older than borders,
older than states,
older than the word
"to own."

And I understand
my silent prayer to you:

*I want to step into the rhythm of the sea —*
*to crash against the rocks like waves.*
*Shattering into droplets and spray,*
*reuniting in the oncoming swell.*

To scatter —
so that
I may gather again.
Not to vanish.
But to stop being
just a single drop.

Blue eternity
does not betray the rocks.
It gives them the surf.
For a little while.

Now I stand on your shore —
in thought.

Like one
who finally understands:
the sea cannot be held
in a description.
It can only be
gently heard.

I leave a word
on your shore.
Leave me
silence.

Caspian.
Khazar.
Ancient blue memory.
Breathe.
Do not disappear.
Be.

When the last letter
is washed from the sand,
the sea begins
to speak again.

**Alın Ak / KaJe MeG**