Inner Glass

A cold breath, an invisible hand,
on the inner glass its art creates.
Not the window of a sensible land,
but where the soul keeps hidden fates.
Here the calligraphy of frost appears,
branched out, fragile and silent.
Lace of ice, like a rare secret kept,
arcane designs for a heart intent.
Every arabesque, a memory deep,
a hope that time could not unquench.
A mute language of another world,
fears and dreams the frost transcribed.
Then the timid sun dissolves the spell,
but does not erase the true vision.
On the window of the soul, its weeping,
leaves a trace that in the heart impera.