You stood there

You stood there before the names changed, before the boundaries were tearing the sky, before the river became a tomb.

The stone passed with the hands that dreamed of not about the war, but about connecting – a drawn drawn over the water to merge people.

You watched them cross them, their stories sewn into steps, a slow rhythm of life from side to side.

You stood there when the rifles came, when the neighbors became jellie.

You did not move while throwing the kids, while the screams were sinking into the flow, while the mothers shot quietly from the inside.

Drina took them away, but you kept the memory.

Tourists touch your fences today. They photograph your arches, gentle curves of survival. They don’t ask what you remember.

But you remember everything.

You stood there when no one else was.