A bell, mute upon the belfry tower, watches the tiles baked by the sun. It no longer rings the hour, nor morning’s power, but past echoes grip its throats undone.
It recalls the blow of the ancient clapper, the vibration that tore through the air, the clamor rising from its friendly wrapper over fields and solemn ways laid bare.
Now it is silent, but a non-sound persists, a suspended harmony among the wall’s crest. It does not scream the time that ever exists, but a sound shadow draws what lies ahead.