The Breath of Passage

The passing house’s breath grazes snowy eaves,
leaves faint prints on forgotten alleyway dreams,
and the city holds its breath, a curious gaze.
The doors curve like glass lips, exhaling time slow,
the halls stretch out footsteps that haven’t arrived,
the house moves on, marking corners with soft rime.
The ceiling bears wind and moon, changing pace in each room,
the stairs line up, icy wings on fading marble sheen,
and an old corner recalls a lost sound.
When night kneels low, the snow writes its script on memory’s page,
the house still runs, leaving a white streak on the city’s core,
and we walk with it, through footprints that never fade.