Grass Between the Lines

In the silence of an abandoned map, time ceases,
the lines remain wounded and the paper breathes so slow.
Through hidden borders grows the grass, slender and tough,
a green tongue reading what memory keeps silent.
Each margin holds a seed unwritten, an echo of paths lost,
silence feeds the roots among faint crosses and rings.
So the map yields to the green, becoming an inner vale,
and geography reforms within a breath of grass and time.