to me while the music moves us,
but his words are not like words.
They are spells.
He takes me beneath his arm
like a secret the world must not hear,
and plants me
in the drifting gardens of the clouds.
From my eyes
a dark rain begins to fall
not sorrow,
but the storm of becoming.
He carries me further…
beyond the balconies of evening
where roses lean over the railings of dusk.
In his hands
I become a child of wind,
a feather obeying invisible breath.
He gives me a sun
as if light were a coin in his pocket.
He gives me a summer
as if time itself were his servant.
And a migrating flock of swallows
circles the sky of my chest.
He whispers that I am his rarest relic,
his unfinished miracle,
a constellation disguised as a woman.
That I am treasure.
That I am a painting
no mortal gallery deserves.
Words…
Words that intoxicate the blood,
that dissolve the memory of steps,
that make the body forget
where the dance began.
Words that rewrite my history,
erase the dust of former names,
and in a single breath
crown me woman.
He builds me a palace of mist,
a kingdom made of breath and promise.
I live in it
only a moment.
Then the spell breaks.
The music ends.
The Witch’s Son vanishes
into the corridors of shadow.
And I return to my lonely table
with empty hands
holding nothing
but the magic
of his words.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 12:46 AM UTC
to me while the music moves us,
but his words are not like words.
They are spells.
He takes me beneath his arm
like a secret the world must not hear,
and plants me
in the drifting gardens of the clouds.
From my eyes
a dark rain begins to fall
not sorrow,
but the storm of becoming.
He carries me further…
beyond the balconies of evening
where roses lean over the railings of dusk.
In his hands
I become a child of wind,
a feather obeying invisible breath.
He gives me a sun
as if light were a coin in his pocket.
He gives me a summer
as if time itself were his servant.
And a migrating flock of swallows
circles the sky of my chest.
He whispers that I am his rarest relic,
his unfinished miracle,
a constellation disguised as a woman.
That I am treasure.
That I am a painting
no mortal gallery deserves.
Words…
Words that intoxicate the blood,
that dissolve the memory of steps,
that make the body forget
where the dance began.
Words that rewrite my history,
erase the dust of former names,
and in a single breath
crown me woman.
He builds me a palace of mist,
a kingdom made of breath and promise.
I live in it
only a moment.
Then the spell breaks.
The music ends.
The Witch’s Son vanishes
into the corridors of shadow.
And I return to my lonely table
with empty hands
holding nothing
but the magic
of his words.
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