A flicker, a breath, a sudden bloom, then the slow, inevitable room, where shadows lengthen, and the edges blur.
We chase the echoes of a whispered name, build castles of sand against the rising flame, and call it purpose, call it law.
The river carves its path, indifferent, deep, while we, like leaves, in restless currents sleep, or wake to question, what it's all for.
Is it the taste of rain, the sun's warm grace? The fleeting smile on a familiar face? Or just the silence, at the closing door?
A tapestry of moments, frayed and worn, a fragile thread, since the first day born, and then... the quiet, and nothing more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem