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Poem

Out of the mist of silence, strangers emerge, slowly fading into the midday light
their steps rustle petals, and the flower-filled street stirs like an old dream.
I let my thoughts drift, white, like a fluff of feather among tender shadows,
I hear how the voices of passersby become the scent of apricots – then oblivion erases them.
A blackbird ignites the air, a red syllable on the staff of the gentle wind,
the bowl of fruit glistens – a round promise that the present can be sweet.
Emerald butterflies patrol the wing of midday, soldiers in an empire of chlorophyll,
between their flutter and my heart only a sigh seeks its nest.
A wave of jasmine rises; time breathes like a child asleep at the breast,
and the street flows on, shining with smiles that quietly fade away.
Every onlooker carries stars in their eyes like coins of longing –
they toss them into the distance, hoping the echo will buy another moment.
At the edge of thought, the pink hummingbird stops the seconds between its wings,
gifting me a fragile silence, translucent like glass still too warm.
A yellow balloon rises silently and writes unfinished sentences in the sky,
I read them within, forget them outwardly, turn back to remain.
And yet, each passerby brings a moon reflection, a trace of vapor,
I let it pass through me, flow onward, erase me just a little.
Thus I weave my flow, a river that forgets itself at every bend,
and in the soft banks, I hide an unspoken name, ready to fall asleep again.

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