Between the salt and the silence,
a man holds his face like a borrowed mask.
The horizon, a rusted blade,
cuts the sky from the sea—
yet the wound does not bleed,
it whispers.
A woman arrives with the wind in her hair,
her voice a tide that does not ask permission.
She names the secrets one by one:
a sun buried in the chest,
a shore drawn with invisible hands,
a lamp lit when every light goes out.
The sea writes lace upon the sand,
letters that vanish,
but their meaning stays.
Every wave says carry,
every retreat says let go.
Forgiveness falls like stones into water,
and the circles widen beyond memory.
Solitude turns from a wound into a temple,
where the heart hears its own echo,
not as an enemy,
but as a companion.
Now the player steps onto the stage of the shore—
not to win, not to lose,
but to play.
The mask cracks,
the sea applauds with foam,
and in the hidden furnace of the ribs,
a sun rises without witnesses.
