Echo from the Ceiling

Under twilight, the cinema breathes rust.
A forgotten song is born from the ceiling, slow and subtle.
Dust dances, notes suspended in empty chairs.
In silence, Leco hears applause that will not return.
Leco stretches among the lamp’s wires and the faded screen.
Each beat stitches the hall; darkness becomes a chorus.
The voice bends to stay, planted on the ceiling like a sail.
At twilight, the song still breathes—the waiting is not done.