We Shouldn’t Name It
We shouldn’t name it
the sea already carries too many.
Every wave arrives
with a forgotten address.
We shouldn’t claim it
the wind will not sign our papers.
It bends around our mouths
and drifts away.
We shouldn’t hold it
what moves will not be kept.
Light on the wall
passes through us
and remains.
The house is black
There is no house
whether on this side or that side
the house is the road
a quiet naming of light
Your name moves with it
carrying light without shape
without destination
only the moments gathered on the way
Every beauty imagined
inside hardship and pain
carrying light again
home when walking
Do not coin me
do not hammer me
let the wind lift me
into the song of leaves
Close
close to you
where the road waits
unanswered
The Weight of Light
Salt with the sea—
a secret they never finish telling.
Wind with the chairs—
old friends who no longer speak.
Light with the wall—
each crossing leaves a wound of gold.
Silence with time—
two mirrors facing each other.
And I, passing—
see nothing,
yet everything sees me.
Through the Glass
A face behind the glass
belongs to no one.
It drifts—
years hiding in the fog.
The sea listens.
Somewhere a child learns to walk,
somewhere an old person forgets the ground—
and the wind carries who is who.
I look through and through, step by step,
road after road,
and I write to you—
the one still moving
with the light.
How Far
The wind came late,
smelling of stone and rain.
It touched the walls,
then forgot my name.
Restless leaves turned,
a voice almost formed—
how far,
how far to return.
A tear broke the dust,
no sound,
only the hush
of things that wait.
Somewhere a moth
entered the light,
and the night
closed its eyes.
You Never Walk Alone
When the street forgets your step,
the wind still knows your weight.
Even the silence hums
with the pulse of your breath.
Each path recalls
those who once crossed its skin—
their echoes stitched to yours,
their dreams turning in your stride.
What walks beside you
is older than all names—
the tide, the dust,
the quiet hand of light.
Less Than Human
we wait past time
among the engines and glass
where names become numbers
and the sun is stored in code
those who build the world
carry its bones on their backs
their shadows pour over asphalt
and disappear into the night
from the vials, doors close
tired faces drift between seas
their lips cracked with salt
still, they walk—
hands of the newborn sky
touch their brows with light
keep walking
up through the bricks that cage the soul.
I Am Marginalized
I am marginalized as an international artist,
walking between lands that never arrive.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
my studio is a bag of wind and paper.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
no walls, no grants, no promised return.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
each step unpaid, each note unsent.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
the sea knows me better than the city.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
my borders are invisible yet sealed.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
still the work grows like grass through stone.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
still I walk, still I write, still I am.
Finding Ershadi at the Red Light
A red light held the street still.
Wind brushed the dust across the lanes.
A face appeared in the next car
as if carried there by silence.
The city paused around that moment.
No script. No stage. Only breath between two windows.
Light softened on a traveler of this land,
a presence shaped by roads already walked.
The director saw a story waiting.
Not written. Not asked for. Simply there.
A quiet invitation from the world
to follow an unseen path.
The wind shifted again.
Engines murmured.
The light changed.
Something began without knowing its name.
Look Back
Wind touched the back of the neck
as the path narrowed behind the hill.
A faint echo rose from old stones,
calling without a voice.
Steps paused in the dust.
Shadows of earlier days gathered quietly.
Nothing returned in full shape,
yet something waited in the blur.
Turning was a small permission.
To face what drifted far
to meet what once was carried
to see what followed unseen.
The road ahead stayed open.
The road behind breathed lightly.
Both moved in the same wind,
holding a question that would not close.
A collection of poems written while walking through Randwick during my thirteen-week Barrett House Art Residency. Each poem emerged from daily movement through streets, reserves, and coastlines where writing, photography, and walking folded into one practice.
Sepa Sama
Sydney, Australia
November 2025