Walls of a House

Of time and silence,

a transcendent environment

bound to the pursuit of beauty.

Deep and subtle influences

touch its sensitivity;

a verbal theme with a vivid sense

of aesthetic autonomy.

Stations of consciousness’ arrival,

pulses of uncertainty

from which poetry emerges

and the impulse for the word:

“Uncertainty is to look deeper

without meeting the other.”

Loneliness and strangeness;

the verbal subject becomes a voice,

a germinating seed of a familiar harmony

without outlines.

The gaze dissolves

the foreignness of existence

and the loss of self-awareness.

From the edge of transparent margins

I try to guard

the misty codes;

to illuminate them,

to press the click on the right to feel

the soul where it hides.

Here, where life reveals

the bare, the untranslatable, the irreducible;

the essence ready to resist

the daily fog.

Words are stripped

of the leaves of the ephemeral,

to reveal a sensitivity

shaped by deep influences.

And there, between the shadows of the walls,

time is not measured;

it flows like a faint breath,

leaving upon the words

an invisible golden dust of memory.

Silence spreads,

not as a void,

but as a fabric weaving

the edges of thoughts

with threads of light.

Within it, the soul

finds the courage to look

where mirrors break,

where forms

become transparent waters.

And when the day fades

at the edge of the horizon,

the walls still guard

the whisper of the first word,

the one never spoken

yet living in every breath.

Each room becomes a beacon

illuminating small fragments of memory;

old glances,

imperceptible gestures,

conversations that never had time to end.

Beauty is not found

in grand, visible things,

but in the breath of air

between two pauses;

in the slow movement of a curtain

greeting the light.

And I, leaning on the edge of silence,

still keep the codes of this house —

codes of crumbs of voices

and transparent wrinkles of walls.

The journey continues,

not outward

but inward;

there, where the word

becomes a seashell

and silence

a crystal glowing in the dark.

And when night lowers

like a blanket of gentle shadows,

the walls breathe slowly,

as if remembering stories

that no one has lived

yet belong to all.

In the corners,

where the light fades,

every shadow becomes a fragment of memory;

a whisper vanishing

before it can be spoken.

The heart steps carefully,

not to disturb the thin layer of silence;

every sound is a crack

in the glass of the moment.

And so, the house remains —

a refuge outside of time,

where beauty does not shout

but is heard like a pulse,

there, deep,

in the unseen side of the soul.