Beneath the glass of a midnight sky,
A single flame flickers, held in the palm of an unseen hand.
The stars tremble, like fragments of a lost dream,
Each one a beacon leading toward an ancient shore.
Smoke rises, a serpent of memory, thrice coiled and coiling, waiting.
In that pause, a name is spoken, and the night unfolds like a map,
Drawn forth from silence.
Nuit
© Copyright: Тарандир, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126042904483
Свидетельство о публикации №126042904483
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