The dust of stars settles in silence,
ancient whispers coil within the marrow.
A question breathes where thought falters—
Who lit the fire of knowing,
and why does it dwindle in the gale?
Between the ink-stained moments of time,
truth wavers like heat upon the asphalt.
To cradle certainty is to shatter its wings,
fragile certitude dissolving in trembling palms.
There is a void where wisdom kneels,
and the hum of humility ascends.
Not the bravado of answers, but silence,
a resonance of absence in the marrow-space.
Shall we wander blind yet eyes unburdened,
trailing our shadows through unlit corridors?
The echo teaches more than the shout,
and the void unfolds further than fullness.
In not-knowing, a clarity sharper than glass,
shards of perception scatter and reform.
Is everything finally whole in the breaking?
Or merely unbroken in the knowledge of absence?