The Detachment of the Shadow

The shadow, faithful dark weave,
clings to the side of what exists,
an ancient pact, a silent fissure
that tirelessly weaves form and light.
It is not just a veil, but grey substance,
silent companion to every shape and gesture,
that at the first breath of mitigating light
still clings to its single remaining part.

Then comes a moment, light as a veil,
where the bond becomes intangible and faded.
An imperceptible tremor, from the sky
an oblique ray, a slow annihilation.
There is no thunder, nor cry of detachment,
only a yielding, a faint dissolving,
when the form loses its intact hold,
and the shadow begins to free itself.

It then floats, no longer weight, no longer bond,
a black breath in the settling air,
a brief dream, an ephemeral miracle,
before the darkness swallows it whole.
Without more form, without more master,
it dances in the air, a dark dust cloud,
fleeting echo of an evaporation,
its fugitive moment, pure.