The Oblique Dance of Solar Motes

In the cone of gold that the blind folds split,
a volatile geometry comes to life.
There is no voice nor intent, only the slow
floating of grains in inlaid light.
Each atom a tiny planet,
lost in orbits traced by the heat.

Non seguono ragione né un richiamo inteso,
but the tenuous flow of moving air.
Rising and falling, in perpetual motion,
they never touch the floor or the ceiling.
Suspended between nothingness and what is shown,
like stars scattered in a void of silk.

A ballet without stage or applause,
the eternal repetition of a fleeting moment.
It is the ethereal weaving of silence,
the pure form of time that reveals itself,
before the ray goes out and everything returns
to the imperceptible quiet of what is unseen.