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I painted the silence between breaths,

where sorrow thickens like smoke.

No sound but the hush of feathers

dragging across a sky that forgot how to shine.

Each wing bends under a weight

too old for time,

too soft for rage.

There is no battlefield in these strokes —

only the stillness after,

when the wind stops,

and the heart hears everything.

A bird becomes a question.

A shadow becomes a prayer.

Gold dares to shimmer

in the grey that never leaves.

What flies in this light

is not hope,

but something older —

a tenderness that refuses to die,

even when the sky

has forgotten

how to weep.