The Electric Breath

It is not dew, nor mountain spray,
nor sweat from heat that starts to bend.
It is a crystal echo, a fountain
of gentle frost that without rest marks
the spent air, between the walls, silent.

A wave without foam, without salt,
that shapes the summer with a whisper.
Every molecule trembles, a ritual
of precise cold, a mechanical goodbye
to the outside world, warm, turbid and slow.

It is the non-living beat, without veins,
that refreshes the mind in this nothingness.
A heart of steel that only holds
time motionless, eternally present,
a white breath, harmless and clear.