Echo of the Clouds

A tongue that no longer lives echoes through the folds of the vacant room.
In grammars woven by the wind, the clouds whisper it unknowingly.
Words of dust, phrases without a shore, forgotten by time.
But the echo knows them as a lexicon of rain and breath.
The clouds, passing like sheets of paper, traverse the room.
Each touch is a syllable that falls and rises in the void.
The tongue becomes a voice of air, and the room lets it seep past the threshold.
Thus remains the echo, the sky that speaks where no speaker remains.