Invisible Breath

The invisible breath of the house
caresses the walls like hands of wind,
embroidering memories on the fabric of the sigh,
and leaves traces of home in the air.
The curtains whisper to the evening’s breeze;
every piece of furniture breathes, keeping a name.
Threads of light weave photos and dreams,
the floor tells who has passed through it.
When the day falls silent, the house remains light,
memory stretches like a sail upon the sea,
and the wind, weaver, embroidering forgotten things,
placing on every corner a memory that stays.