This glow of our silence is dead

This glow of our silence is dead. It has always been dead.

Opaque.

The lengthened shadows of dusk now merge with restless souls, thirsty for a contained life that flows at the edge of the other shore, itself hidden within the soul of the lit metropolis, with cement fingers, crackling upon itself.

What still holds us is the warmth of our place in the North, beyond the old sacred corners where the rituals of the past still echo in the morning sigh of the wind through the centuries-old trees.

A constant warmth at the centre that becomes mundane.

Some lives look like this.

Shuffling steps follow the dance of existence while the city murmurs the longing that permeates our days like the most nostalgic of songs left unfinished.

We are fleeting moments and this glow of our silence is dead.

It, which so often arranged to meet at the centre of a bridge capable of uniting all the shadows and lights that dwell within us.

And so, in the in-between, in a single point of transition, we cry out for a sudden change of direction towards where everything flows and transforms. To hold onto the city that memory slowly pushes away is like listening for the murmur of a final prayer to the river water.