Between a black that devours
and a blue that almost recalls
six small lights move across.
Not birds, perhaps.
Or birds the way prayers take wing
brief, pale, directed toward
something that may not hear.
Below them, the clouds are not clouds
but the weight of what went unsaid,
dark continents drifting
through a sky that has forgotten dawn.
And still – they go.
Scattered like fragments of a broken line,
each alone,
each quietly bound
to the same unfinished passage.
Beneath, a white expanse
snow, or silence,
or the blank page
before the first word arrives.
- Object number
- 013.040
