The Golden Thread in the Mist

A golden thread, woven from a dream,
stretches, trembling, through the dark veil.
But the fog, dense and without restraint,
wraps it, hiding the sky from sight.
Within its cold meshes, a faint glow,
a living memory of ardent heat.
It longs to dance free upon the wind,
to guide steps toward a pure horizon,
but every attempt, every movement,
is a tight knot, a dark future.
The gray meshes, so silent and close,
suffocate the echo of precious promises.
Thus it remains, captive and light,
a flash of gold in a mantle of gray.
The mist conceals it, but does not dissolve it, nor drink it,
silent guardian of that sacred wonder.
And waits, perhaps, for a ray to tear the veil,
to resume its flight toward a distant sky.