There was a time
when I walked the streets
and the world around me spoke
the way I thought,
sounded the way I felt.
Blond hair in the sun,
the soft tone
of familiar words
in a language
that raised me.

The church stood open,
not only for God
but for belonging,
for the quiet
that connected us.
Sundays had a scent,
a rhythm,
a soul that now
has fallen silent.

I walk those same streets now,
but they feel different-
as if they no longer
recognize me.
Another music,
other voices
fill the space
that once was mine.

Mosques rise
where towers once stood.
Friday speaks loudly
where Sunday once whispered.
My language has grown rare
on street corners,
in shops,
in the laughter of children.

It is not hate
that lives in me,
but grief.
For the fading
of a way of life
in which I knew myself.

I know change
is inevitable.
But what if home
quietly leaves
without saying goodbye?

And I remain,
searching for echoes
of who we were,
in a land
that is still called the Netherlands,
but feels
like a memory.