The Shadow's Breath on Granite

On the rough brow of millennia,
where granite watches over the eternal,
a light tremor spreads out,
a dark breath without body or ballast.
It is the mute fleece of a wandering cloud,
that stretches a veil, a map without ink,
upon the ancient epidermis of the heights.

Dishes ephemeral gorges, and then erases them,
caresses wrinkles carved by the frost,
a weightless shadow that grips and slides,
dressing bare peaks with passing mourning.
It is not cold that bites, nor warmth that conquers,
only a fleeting thought from the sky,
etched for an instant on indifferent rock.

Then it vanishes, like idea born and spent,
leaving no trace or memory behind.
The sun embraces the absorbed stone again,
which knows nothing of drawn patterns,
nor of air passages turned to shadow.
Only the sky, perhaps, in its mute mirror,
keeps the shiver of that encounter.