Khi chiếc vỏ ốc gọi tên kí ức When the seashell call the name of memory

When the seashell call the name of memory

I press the seashell
against the ear of silence—
listening to the sea from a distant shore
return
with the sigh of waves.

I do not know whom the sea is calling,
or whether memory is calling
the name of someone from long ago.

I only know
that inside this little shell
there is an ocean that has never slept,
and somewhere
an embrace that has gone far away
still feels warm,
like an afternoon
before the sunlight had faded.

There are partings
that need no word of farewell.
Someone leaves—
yet the sound of their footsteps
remains within the heart
like footprints upon the sand,
so that whenever the tide returns,
we almost believe
we have met again.

I once thought
time would erase everything.

But no—
time only teaches memory
how to lie more quietly
in the deepest places of the soul.

And love,
if it has ever truly passed through a human life,
will not die.

It becomes the sound of waves,
the salt upon the lips,
an old afternoon
suddenly returning
when we happen to hear the sea.

The seashell remains silent.

But I understand—
some silences
speak louder than a thousand words.

There are people
who no longer stand beside us,
yet still live
in a deep corner of the heart.

There are loves
that can no longer be called by name,
so all we can do
is bend down,
pick up a seashell by the shore,
and listen…

only to realize
that we still love
something
time once thought it had taken away.

If one day
someone asks me:

“What is inside the seashell?”

I will smile:

The sea.
A human life.
Loves we thought were lost—
but which never truly left the heart.

And then I understand:

The sea may erase footprints from the sand,
time may fade the traces of a human life—
but neither can carry away
a love that has truly lived.

For at the very end of silence,
memory still calls
the name of love.