Ankica Anchie - Poem
Moderator 
Ankica Anchie, Croatia
Humanist, Poetessa, Author
THE LASTING HUE
Let us go to the edge of language.
To the silence that carries the weight of an era.
Without ornament - only truth rising from ash.
To the silence that carries the weight of an era.
Without ornament - only truth rising from ash.
The house by the shore no longer had an address.
The sea had erased its name,
the wind had spoken its obituary.
It stood like an abandoned witness,
stripped to the bones of lime,
while salt slowly finished
what time never accomplishes all at once.
The sea had erased its name,
the wind had spoken its obituary.
It stood like an abandoned witness,
stripped to the bones of lime,
while salt slowly finished
what time never accomplishes all at once.
Once, upon the southern wall,
you stretched the sky with paint.
You said,
“Blue must be deeper than fear.”
And I believed
that depth could be mixed in a tin,
that sunlight could be sealed in layers
like a heart within a chest.
you stretched the sky with paint.
You said,
“Blue must be deeper than fear.”
And I believed
that depth could be mixed in a tin,
that sunlight could be sealed in layers
like a heart within a chest.
But the sun is no prisoner.
It burns and departs.
The sea arrives and takes.
And the wall, however silent,
cannot guard
what a human being does not know how to hold.
It burns and departs.
The sea arrives and takes.
And the wall, however silent,
cannot guard
what a human being does not know how to hold.
The years gathered like dust.
The fence yielded first.
Then the threshold.
Then the silence that ceased to be shared.
At last, there remained only the sound of the sea -
heavy, profound, relentless,
like the breathing of someone who will not return.
The fence yielded first.
Then the threshold.
Then the silence that ceased to be shared.
At last, there remained only the sound of the sea -
heavy, profound, relentless,
like the breathing of someone who will not return.
I came back when there was no reason left.
That is always the true moment for return.
That is always the true moment for return.
The wall was cracked,
like a palm that has held emptiness too long.
Beneath the gray, beneath dampness and forgetting,
a slender line of color appeared.
like a palm that has held emptiness too long.
Beneath the gray, beneath dampness and forgetting,
a slender line of color appeared.
It was not beautiful.
It was not pure.
But it was alive.
It was not pure.
But it was alive.
I placed my hand upon it
as upon the forehead of a fevered child.
I felt warmth that did not come from outside.
as upon the forehead of a fevered child.
I felt warmth that did not come from outside.
Then I understood -
the lasting hue is not a trace of the past.
It is transformation.
What once lived on the wall
had moved into my blood.
the lasting hue is not a trace of the past.
It is transformation.
What once lived on the wall
had moved into my blood.
What burned between us
did not vanish with departure -
it changed form.
did not vanish with departure -
it changed form.
The house remained without doors.
The sea continued its endless motion.
Evening closed the shore in darkness.
The sea continued its endless motion.
Evening closed the shore in darkness.
But within me, the light remained awake.
Not as memory.
Not as grief.
Not as grief.
But as a quiet, monumental truth:
nothing that was once authentic
dies.
nothing that was once authentic
dies.
It transforms.
It becomes foundation.
It becomes the color through which we see the world.
It becomes foundation.
It becomes the color through which we see the world.
And then I knew -
the lasting hue is not what survives time.
the lasting hue is not what survives time.
The lasting hue is what you become
after time has passed through you.
after time has passed through you.
