I walk the edge where silence meets the word,
A blade of dusk between the now and then—
Each breath a question, each footfall unheard,
Yet echoing through minds of sleeping men.

The jasmine wilts beneath the neon sky,
Batiks unravel in the market’s blaze,
While puppets dance and prophets pass us by,
Their shadows stitched in time’s dissolving haze.

O soul, unshackled from the tyrant’s scroll,
What truth survives the fire of the known?
Not in the law, but in the fractured whole,
Where myths are seeds and silence overthrown.

So let me burn—not to consume, but light—
A verse that haunts the architecture of night

Slipi. November 4, 2025