Beneath a porcelain sky
where light walks on tiptoe,
lies a land that breathes inward,
drowned in the foliage of forgotten hours.

The trees whisper in a language
only memories understand,
with syllables of basalt and melancholy.

Time does not drip here;
it crystallizes.
Each moment,a fossil,
a thought suspended in amber.

I see a woman in a dress of ash
stepping across a river made of paper.
Her shadow belongs to no one.
Her name is carved from stone,
but never spoken.

In this land
where echoes need no origin,
I breathe at the edge
of the unspeakable.

For some truths
are too sharp to utter
and too soft to forget.