Imprints on the Stage of Time

Our arms of the theatrical scenes
leave the marks of time.
Traces of past ages in the misted light,
crossing like the branching roots of history.

Silence between breath and word –
and yet we decide who may remain,
who passes the stage as just a shadow,
who stays, even when they don't remain.
With understanding, we meet each other's gaze,
what burns in the unsaid.

They should be applauding, but in the air hangs only the echo of breath.
Words written for someone else
dissolve in the breath upon the lips,
the auditorium is empty—
only the echo of footsteps in the dark.

From moments, we weave new paths,
from encounters, we create our own world.