The Orange Chalk of Rust

On indifferent steel, in silence,
an orange chalk paints slow.
It knows no hurry, holds no regret,
just an ancient thirst, a slow spell.
It draws arabesques where time grows weary,
a silent code upon the pale side.

Each granule is a kiss, an erosion,
a tongue transforming iron to sight.
It sketches maps where borders never stood,
secret tales of what must end.
The deep red hue, the vivid yellow,
an architecture forever suspended.

It is no ruin, but a slow bloom
of other beauty, a fresh coming.
The canvas crumbles, yet the mark stays,
a colored memory, a festival
of particles the passing winds scatter,
before the steel forgets its song.