The Rotating Flight of the Tossed Coin

From a finger’s shadow, a flash, a gleam of brass,
It hovers in the air, escaping its fate,
the tossed coin, round illusion,
a dancing disc, an ephemeral divine state.
The world bends down, a swift vertigo,
in its perpetual turn, a lightning curtain drawn,
every edge is blurred, a single voice,
before embracing the final law of dawn.

It knows not the earth, the soil that awaits it,
the mad dance, the vortex of silver and copper bright,
nor the exact point where grace surrenders to fate,
or the unknown side that destiny holds tight.
It is only an instant, a fragile design,
before the heavy weight calls it back down low
to a fixed pose, devoid of all art or sign,
among dust and the silence where endings grow.

And when it lies, motionless, its run extinguished,
a simple fragment, of cold metal sheen,
no trace remains of the vigor that shook it,
of the brief rotating dream, an ephemeral scene.
Only the memory of a flash and short leap,
a circle that painted the air and then descended low,
mute seal of sudden art, held in deep sleep,
a moment, reclaimed by every gravity’s flow.