I am the word before it’s breathed,
a whisper caught in fate’s own weave.
A thought unshaped, yet burning bright,
a flicker lost between the night.

I am the ink that mourns the quill,
the silence longing to be filled.
A stanza stitched in fleeting thread,
a lyric born when stars have bled.

I am the page the wind has turned,
the ember’s ghost, the lesson learned.
A voice that lingers past the crest
of dying light and hearts confessed.

I am the poet, yet the muse,
the echo sung in verses bruised.
And when the final breath is drawn,
I’ll live within the words once gone.

The Vastness, Stars!
To witness the vastness, stars!
Above my chin, a miracle bars—
The skies! the skies!

The burning light! What bright boroughs,
Circle-cities spun in furrows,
Where fire flies!

How bent my knee with moss now—
Dim woods, where elves delve, bow!
A whitebeam blares!

The torrential winds and rains—
Unable to cover fire’s refrains—
The grey lawn glares!

Cold the gold, where quickgold lies,
Wind-beat whitebeam! Airy abeles rise!
Set flare and sing!

Flake-doves, afloat, at a farmyard scare—
Flurry! Fury! Heaven’s breath lays bare—
Ah well! a prize this thing!

O lightnings leap! O quicksilver streak!
Vault the vault! Heaven’s bright beak,
Peck forth day’s bright bread!

Or whisper soft in a shadow-wind glen,
The hawthorn thrills, its heart unpenned,
Each branch breaks red!

Oh, all! This glory! All is a gaze —
God’s purchase pure, in love’s deep blaze,
Writ on the world’s face.

:: 01.09.2025 ::