The Echo of the Forgotten Lock

Within the dull plate, a thin cut,
a black oval, a smile of weary metal.
It no longer welcomes the agile and virile iron,
that once danced to its frank invitation.
It is only a hole, a bottomless shadow,
an alphabet engraved without any secret.

But sometimes, in the silence that surrounds it,
the air ripples with a discreet rustle.
It is the echo of a key that won’t turn,
the gentle lament of a lost intent,
an ancient whisper of an opened door,
or perhaps closed forever, without excuse.

It remains there, guardian of a precise void,
a round scar, mute and patient.
It asks nothing of time nor of a smile,
only the long shadow of a passerby.
And in its silent darkness, a faint lament
for every missed turn, for every appointment.