The Invisible Rustle of Copper Veins

On the white wall, where plaster veils
Hidden paths and woven threads,
It is not the wind’s subtle trace,
Nor the faded echo of worlds gone past.
But a vibration the ear cannot grasp,
A murmur that reason ignores,
Of living copper that life holds fast,
And without rest pulses through every hour.

It is the discreet soul of light
That flows proud, without ever a word,
From the beat of the key that produces
The silver flame that stains the night.
An electric whisper, a subtle song,
That silently feeds every dwelling,
A blind river that has no border,
Silent support of every new dawn.