The Ancient Breath in Crystal

In the spent block, where the frost engraves
memories immobile in clear design,
a mute multitude decides and saves
to be captive, no longer divine.
Small spheres of air, stars made of glass,
confine a minute or an age entire,
a primal breath, without measure to pass,
held within a transparent, altered pyre.

Ogni bolla è un battito, un’eco stanca
di cieli spenti, di venti lontani,
un’anima invisibile che franca
l’oblio e si conserva tra le mani
del tempo cristallino. Lì dimora
the voice of an instant that will not return,
a silence that speaks to every coming dawn
before the sun its armor lets burn.

They are ethereal archives, without a name,
deposits of air never breathed before,
a steady energy, white like a flame
of history frozen, immaculate core.
They wait for the fusion that will dissolve them
or remain forever, with no haste at all,
microcosms sealed among the leaves that involve them
in an eternity that does not fall.