Shells of Words

Glass sand, postcards faded in the wind,
the last tourist walks with a sea basket,
on his knees he gathers words like shining shells,
bringing them to his ear to measure their silence.
Some are empty and chime unknown memories,
others keep names that glow upon the touch,
he arranges them in rows on his coat’s edge, ordering an archive of echoes,
every word bears the weight of a wave that won’t return.
In the evening he lights lamps beneath a sky without routes,
opening a shell and a laugh slips into his hand like salt,
he closes his eyes and sows the words along the path,
leaving a trail only those who listen can cross.