Language of Shadows

In silence, the language of shadows whispers.
Every syllable is a drop of rain that wets memory.
The mouth of time remains parted, and breath becomes wind.
Darkness arranges the sounds like leaves at the edge of the hour.
The rain fills the mouth of time,
bringing ancient flavors and unspoken promises.
The words stretch out, heavy with dampness,
and the echo stops between teeth and sky.
When the rain falls silent, remains the trace of a language.
The shadows depart, but the language waits ready to be reborn.
Time becomes new, holding breath in a sip of water,
and the voice, reborn, begins to call the hours.