The Particle of the Vocal Gesture

Beneath the thin veil of the tongue,
before the breath pushes and sculpts,
resides the seed, the shadow that does not stain,
the mute form that does not lose balance.
It is not yet echo, nor silent cry,
but a dense point, a mute whisper,
where future meaning is silent, lucid,
awaiting the permission of the future.

It has the weight of a feather that does not fall,
the cold grain of an untouched thought,
a non-color that neither dissolves nor flees,
a micro-universe from compressed time.
There dwells the intent, still without face,
a particle of air made longing,
a fragment of soul not yet dissolved,
unknown to the ear, but already flame.

Then a breath brushes it, an internal wind,
and it unravels, or molds into melody,
losing its grain, its eternal
moment of latency, on the way.
And only sound remains, pure vibration,
forgetting its precursor state,
its bare, primordial weave,
the silence that was its founder.