The Consciousness of the Unexpected Fold

On the white sheet, spread and serene,
a lazy gesture, or perhaps a fate,
has pressed a groove, a barely visible line,
that is no wrinkle but an intimate sign.
It does not fold time, nor the human heart,
but the docile fiber, with a gentle hand,
and there, where a plan slowly unfolds,
a mind is born, delicate and sincere.

It knows the weight of an unknown hand,
the blind haste that generated it,
and the silent whisper of every imprint
that has settled upon that margin.
It has no word, nor voice or gaze,
but an internal echo, a knowing delay,
that the winds of the world listen to, while awake,
never yielding, a steadfast guardian.