Magnons
In the lattice hum, a whisper stirs,
not of wind, but of aligned desire—
tiny spins turning like prayer wheels,
their rhythm a soft persuasion of order.
Magnons—ghosts of magnetic thought,
born from a quarrel between up and down,
they travel as waves through the iron mind,
a silent procession of disciplined fire.
No heavier than the hush of motion,
they speak in frequencies, not words,
each oscillation a syllable of harmony.
I have heard them in the steel's deep calm,
when heat fades and structure dreams—
a chorus of invisible dancers,
turning stillness into light,
and chaos into song.
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