A Journey Beyond Sight: Rediscovering Mexico’s Soul with Reece O’Bryan

I left Kentucky before the hills
Could memorize my name.
I carried no suitcase full of answers,
Only a cane, some scars, and shame.

The darkness came before I left.
It followed me down every road.
But I learned that some men see the world
And still cannot carry their own load.

Mexico met me with open windows,
With music bleeding through the night,
With voices I could not understand
But somehow felt were right.

I learned the language slowly,
One word, one mistake, one day.
I learned the streets by sound and scent,
And learned new ways to find my way.

Back home, the hills still call sometimes.
I hear them when the night is still.
But memory is not a chain, I learned.
It is just another kind of hill.

So if you ask me where I belong,
I will not give you some simple name.
I belong wherever I can stand
And face tomorrow without shame.

I cannot see the sun rise here.
But I feel its warmth arrive.
And maybe that is enough to know
That I am still alive.

I left Kentucky as a blind man.
Mexico did not make me see.
It simply taught me that the dark
Was never all there was of me.