I have walked with the hush of hunger,
a silence that speaks in echoes—
soft whispers of stone and sky,
footsteps folding into dust.
The wind has pressed its questions,
but I do not answer.
Not yet.
There is a door somewhere ahead,
hinges rusted by time and tears,
but light leaks through the cracks—
a thin, golden thread unraveling the dark.
I do not fear the crossing,
only the echoes I leave behind.
Will they know the way?
Will they hear the hush?
Some roads must be traced in shadow,
so that those who follow
seek the light for themselves.
And so I walk,
empty and full,
silent and singing,
bound and free.
The door is near.
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