The Silent Balance of a Day

A sheet so light, fallen and forgotten,
a mute witness to a brief passage.
Black characters, aligned figures, a trace
of minimal spending, an ephemeral voyage.
From the thermal roll, the echo of a market,
a cold calculation, devoid of wisdom’s grace.

You know nothing of the gesture, the hand that gripped,
the urgency of buying, the sudden turn.
A coffee drunk, an indirect need slipped,
a price paid out, an instant hard to learn.
In this small rectangle, a time confined,
a story binds itself, however frail and thin.

It is a fragile mirror, an inner balance,
of what slips away, of what we give.
Not gold or silver, but the little romance
that the day consumes, and will not live.
A silent reminder, with cold rigor shown,
of what the day no longer holds:
neither weight, nor voice, nor any feeling known.