The Patience of the Forgotten Hairpin

At the drawer’s bottom, among dust and oblivion,
rests a hairpin, a little god
of curved metal, without reason known,
awaiting a return that will not come home.

It has seen hairstyles, light laughter’s gleam,
whispered secrets, eyes of waking dream.
Now it is alone, a point where time stood still,
in the dense silence of a fading world’s will.

It does not weep for its time, nor seek a hand,
knowing its fate is the echo across the land
of a finished gesture, of silent grace.
Its curve holds history, forgotten in this place.