If language does not breathe,
it is merely thought.
If it does,
it lucidly ambles through today's testimony,
translating the non-verbal trance of hours,
to the texture of pure poetry.
This book is a quiet pool of water,
that only your swimming through,
can beautifully ruin to waves.
It does not dance around the equations,
mimicking a math that almost moans.
But instead eavesdrops on a heartbeat,
celebrating its cardiogram like calligraphy.
Stories blow through it, like seasons,
of which, characters witness the weather.
Yet it too remains a timeless dialogue,
that matures insightfulness into wisdom.
Wherever impermanence is law,
a voice like mine, arises, singing.
And then it passes away again,
like sunset, into colors.
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