Hello lovely people <3 Today I wanted to share a poem written by one of our members with you all. If you have a piece of art you would like to share with the community, send us an email or a message on signal.

ABRINKEN

In the morning, Abrinken slowly wakes.

A tarp flaps in the wind. A door slams shut. The kettle goes on.

Someone slept badly. Someone slept well. Someone didn't sleep at all.

But the coffee finds its way to the table.

Three people are already sitting there.

One with mud on their trousers. One with a guitar leaning against the chair. Another just staring out between the trees, saying:

"It's going to be a good day."

Even though it's raining.

On Abrinken, there is always something to do.

A plank needs fixing. A bicycle needs repairing. Firewood needs carrying inside. The garden needs watering, even though the sky is already doing a better job.

Someone builds.

Someone cooks.

Someone finds an old sofa and decides, of course, that it deserves another life.

Most things here have had another life before.

The planks. The furniture. The pots and pans. The bicycles.

Maybe that's why everything fits so well.

Because here, you don't necessarily believe in throwing something away just because it's old.

You repair it.

You build on it.

You figure it out together.

As the afternoon comes, more people arrive.

Someone comes by for the first time.

"Is this a place where you can just walk in?"

Yes.

A chair is pulled out.

Someone pours them a coffee.

The conversation begins.

And suddenly, a person who was a stranger ten minutes ago is sitting around the table, arguing with everyone else about what should be built next.

That's how Abrinken grows.

Not through advertising.

Not through membership cards.

But through people.

One person helps another.

Someone teaches someone else.

Someone asks for help.

Someone says:

"I've never done this before."

And gets the answer:

"Neither have we."

So you try.

When evening comes, the city grows darker around us.

The lights of Aarhus shine between the branches.

But here, there is light from a fire.

People gather around the warmth.

Food is being cooked.

A pot is passed around.

Bread is torn apart and shared.

Someone plays music.

Someone sings along.

Someone sings completely out of tune.

Nobody cares.

A dog runs past.

Someone laughs.

Someone tells a story that has already been told three times.

And everyone laughs again anyway.

It isn't perfect.

It isn't supposed to be.

People argue too.

People misunderstand each other.

People get tired.

Someone needs to walk away for a while.

But the next day, you might still find yourself standing beside them, a drill in your hand.

Because community isn't about everyone agreeing.

Community is about continuing to figure out how we can all be here together.

And then there is the earth.

The wet soil beneath your boots.

The small plants.

The trees.

The birds in the morning.

Everything green, growing without asking permission.

You can stand in the middle of Abrinken and almost forget that you're in Aarhus.

Then you hear a car.

A train.

A siren.

The city reminds you that it's still there.

And maybe that's exactly why Abrinken feels so powerful.

Because it isn't far away from the world.

It is right in the middle of it.

Because what really is a home?

Is it somewhere you own?

Four walls?

An address?

Or is it a place where someone saves a portion of food for you if you arrive late?

A place where someone knows where the hammer is?

A place where you can sit down without having to explain why you're there?

Maybe a home is simply somewhere where other people say:

"Come inside."

Abrinken isn't finished.

It probably never will be.

There will be more planks.

More plants.

More people.

More mistakes.

More evenings around the fire.

And maybe that's the whole point.

You don't need to have the whole solution before you begin.

You can begin with a table.

A pot.

A garden.

A conversation.

One hand reaching out to help.

Another hand reaching back.

And build from there.

Day by day.

Person by person.

Plank by plank.

In the middle of Aarhus.

Between the trees.

In the middle of everything old.

Abrinken stands.

And around the fire, people sit together imagining

that maybe the world could be different.

Not tomorrow.

Not even necessarily next year.

But right now.

Here.

Together.