Within the deep mouth of a bell, never touched by battle, never song, it settles slow, invisible, without design, the pollen of silence, an eternal mantle.
The bronze shakes no arcane note, nor does the air vibrate with a broken sign. Only an expectation, ancient and sovereign, guards its nothingness, pure and holy.
And there, among curves stripped of resonance, where potential echo sleeps without end, the light dust, tenuous constancy, weaves an eternity of sublime quiet.