The Narrative Mantle of the Comet

From the cold abyss, a crystal thread,
not merely ice or wandering dust,
but a mantle that tells, slow dance
of light and time, whispering story.
It is the cosmic memory that clothes
the wandering body, a veil of legends
sewn by the wind of celestial dawns.

Every glimmer is a heavenly syllable,
gathered in vortices that the void ignites.
Narrating of extinguished suns and arcane worlds,
of clouds born from a distant cry,
and tracing signs with astral brushes,
a silent code that finds its nest
in the weary and fleeting reverberation,
witness to a thoughtful being.

It is not a lament of lost matter,
nor vain imprint in blind darkness;
it is a promise that has not dispersed,
a living presence that goes and comes.
A song without sound that floats,
the ancient voice of the boundless.