The fountain folds into itself,
water chasing water
like a thought that refuses
to finish.
In the courtyard,
two friends rehearse a photograph
they will not take.
Their laughter rises,
breaks against the walls,
returns in fragments—
a tide that forgets
where it began.
The paving stones keep
the weight of every step,
but never speak.
Shadows slip across them
like hulls without rigging,
adrift in a harbour
that never opens to sea.
Beyond the walls,
the wind has lost
its compass.
It leans into the gate,
pressing the same syllable
against iron,
again,
again.
And I,
at the margin,
count the widening circles
until the numbers blur,
until the silence
keeps on counting
without me
…
.