Paradise Found

It was as if I had never left, and now returned.
Paradise found.

But how can something be found
if it was never lost?

Nothing calls for return.

What we call paradise has always been present:

in the rhythm of the tide,
in the light that slowly settles toward evening,
in the quiet persistence of ordinary things along the shore.

Balconies facing the sea.
Footprints dissolving at the water’s edge.
Objects briefly carried by sand and wind.

Everything moves toward disappearance,
without drama, without resistance.

Perhaps paradise reveals itself precisely there —
in what is fragile,
in what does not remain.

Not as a destination,
but as a moment of lucid attention.