The Luminous Scar of Frosted Glass

On frosted glass, a veil of milky honey,
where the outer world becomes a blurred dream,
every day is a new beginning, a faithful veil
awaiting the touch of a never-given kiss.
But there is an hour that no longer finds its yesterday,
a golden instant that does not bend to time.

Was it light stolen from a sun beyond the paths,
or ray of a star born in the meantime?
An unseen trace, a sigh of shadow,
that left its mark upon the cold grain.
It was not a reflection that the night cleared,
but an ardent seal, a silent commitment.

Now the frost itself weaves a dense gold,
no longer transparent, but dressed in light.
A scar, barely inscribed,
eternal memory of a fugitive gleam.
And who looks believes it is a winter game,
unaware that it is the soul of the glass, an inner secret.