The Architecture of a Suspended Aroma

There is no lime, nor stone, nor living wood,
but pillars of essence that rise so good.
Each note a brick, a faint design,
in the vague plan of ephemeral relief.
A silent schema, before the scattered echo,
which memory builds and then lets go.

The base, earthy, a deep root,
then the hearts, flowered, secret gardens.
And high up, the peak, an air that floods,
a nimble flight of ethereal destinies.
Not map, but sensation, a hidden breath,
before the wind has already thinned it out.

It is an invisible bridge between yesterday and tomorrow,
that vanishes while it is being created.
An ephemeral cathedral among our hands,
just a moment before it starts to fall down.
Yet it remains intact, a perfect form,
in the mind that, silent, still designs it.