The cradle rocks. The mountain does not move.
Wind presses ash against the windowpane.
A mother hums. A candle splits its groove.
The stone beneath the hearth remembers flame.
A child blinks once. The sky is full of wings.
She dreams of snow, though none has ever fallen.
Her fist clenched tight around invisible things—
A sword, a kiss, a city made of pollen.
The stars hang still. The world has not begun.
Her skin is taut as wax; her pulse, a thread.
And yet she turns her face toward setting sun—
As if she knew which light belonged to red.
The fire makes no sound. The silence leans.
A king sits watching what he says he dreams.