Between two silences made of stone,
a path winds gently, without haste.
It is neither wide, nor straight,
yet it seems to know where it is going.
Windows stare into emptiness,
doors remain closed with unfinished stories,
corners where time hesitates,
like a breath held too long.
And still, there,
where the world narrows into shadow,
a single lamp remains lit.
Not for light,
but as a sign that something else may exist.
Perhaps a way out,
perhaps a memory from a life
where paths led nowhere
but every step was real.
And who can say,
perhaps beneath that quiet lampshade
gather lost destinies
that no longer had a place
in the stillness of order.
