A rough breath, barely a faint hiss, veiled among the teeth, an unspoken line. It is the consonant, without its own bliss, a silent curve, an unfulfilled design.
Silence is not its true abyss, but the absent echo that makes it vain. It seeks a vowel, a sacred plexus, to give it voice, to make it sovereign again.
Without that open breath, that bright clarity, it remains a stone, an incomplete idea. But with the “A,” the “E,” the “I” in its heart’s mystery, it becomes song, a word already understood and dear.