Along the path that surrounded me,
flowers-soaked in water,
pale with wetness floated by
The road lay everywhere wrapped in mist.
Where have I arrived?
In this city,
who am I?

The wind turned cold,
leaves grew heavy, damp with moisture.
The river’s slow breathing
fell into rhythm with my steps.

There is no single home here
belonging to someone who loves me
No one who knows me
My name
is needed by no one.

I stood near the Cow Tower
I ran my hands along its rough stone walls
Beneath the curve of rocks,
I wandered in circles.

Those who run here
pass by in haste.
They have no concern
for the birds
perched on the branches.

The roadside shops,
the boats drifting slowly,
the centuries flowing down the river
the cathedral’s pillars
observe them all
in silence.

As I stood there,
those stones seemed to bear
the weight of years,
as though Time itself
was speaking directly to me.

From the cathedral tower’s light
a pigeon took flight.
Its reflection
trembled in the water.
The heavy wind
pulled me forward.

No dust,
The river that never stops moving,
at the bend of the road
the river’s turbulence
Pebbles roll
running toward heaven.

A little extra rain
fell, weary,
flowing downward.
I sat on the bench,
listening
to the bell sounds.
For a moment,
I felt as if this city’s secrets
were whispering
into my ear.

Near the shore,
in the flick of fingers
of children riding bicycles, laughing,
the river slipped past.

Yes,
the river holds within itself
every story,
every ending,
every silence.

When the sun entered within,
it shimmered like stained glass.
I ended my walk.
But I knew
the river
would keep moving.

And with it,
a tiny part of me
will join the water
and flow forever.

The river is watching over me.
In my unmoving journey,
its depth
is something
I have not yet reached.

When I wrote ‘I Have Not Yet Reached’, I was holding a deep sense of quiet displacement. I had never been physically present in the city I describe; yet, through the river, I felt as though I was already walking there. The poem grew out of an imagined journey, one shaped by observation, memory, and an inward need to understand where I stand when place, name, and belonging feel uncertain.

As I wrote, I felt myself moving slowly, almost hesitantly, through fog-covered roads and alongside a breathing river. I was attentive to small, tactile details such wet flowers, cold wind, damp leaves, the roughness of stone because these were the elements that made the city feel real to me. At the same time, they opened a quieter question within me: Where have I arrived, and who am I here? The absence of familiar faces and homes mirrored an inner solitude I was carrying, turning the act of walking into a conversation with myself.

I felt time very closely while writing this poem. The Cow Tower, cathedral pillars, and the steady flow of the river seemed to hold centuries within them, observing without judgment or haste. In contrast to the jaggers passing by, these structures offered me a sense of endurance and patience. Time did not feel distant or abstract; it felt as though it was speaking gently to me through stone, water, and silence.

The river, especially, became a source of emotional grounding. While everything else felt uncertain, the river continued to move, holding stories, endings, and silences within itself. Writing about it brought me a quiet reassurance that even when I pause, even when I feel unfinished, something larger continues to carry me forward.

By the time I reached the final lines, I understood that this poem was not about arriving. It was about accepting incompleteness with humility. I have not yet reached reflects how I felt then, and how I often still feel standing between movement and stillness, knowing that depth, belonging, and understanding are not places to reach, but currents I am slowly learning to enter.