The Calligraphy of Time on Stone

Time, a sculptor without hands,
does not carve, nor polish quickly,
but on the granite, slow and arcane,
traces its secret calligraphy.
It is no ink the spreading sign,
but a murmur that fills the peaks.

It is the wind, a breath of ancient grace,
that carries grains of sand in dance,
and the water, patient and meek,
that erodes every rock drop by drop.
Then the frost that splits, in quiet clamor,
and reveals the boulder’s heart, profound.

Thus, layer upon layer, a story emerges,
of ancient clouds and extinguished suns,
a secret map that rises
from the silence of sleeping millennia.
Every fold, a sculpted memory,
a silent verse that from the depths has flowered.