Grammar of Flame

They speak without sound
inscribing the sky with a language
older than breath, older than belief.
Each coil is a phrase in motion,
each ember a syllable that refuses to fade,
until even the clouds begin to listen.

Their voices do not meet in clash,
but in convergence
two origins writing toward each other,
until meaning ignites
in the quiet between them.

Below, the world softens into witness:
petals lean closer,
air holds its shape,
and the sky, vast and uncertain,
learns how to remember.

And somewhere,
a single gaze lifts
not in wonder, but recognition
as if the truth had always been waiting:
that language is not spoken into existence,
but lived
burning, breathing,
and endlessly becoming.

Object number

088.054