The Silent Geometry of Accord

The key, chiseled waiting in the palm,
guardian of secrets, an etched sign.
It does not vibrate, has no voice, no psalm,
but carries the code of a world designed.
An exact metal, curve after curve,
a firm memory of a clear destiny,
unaware of time that starts to swerve,
awaiting its embrace, the sole sanctuary.

And the lock, mouth of shadow, dark,
a mute labyrinth, awaiting its turn.
It knows neither outside, nor pure light’s mark,
only the carving for which it did yearn.
Each bolt a suspended breath,
a hidden invitation, an empty hope that waits,
in the eternal mechanism, understood beneath,
the promise of opening new gates.

In that non-sound, before the meeting,
resides the deepest and most silent truth:
two solitudes ready for greeting,
one form to another, a path already put through.
A small gesture, a whisper of iron,
reveals worlds, dissolving what was unsaid.
The key slips in, conquering every barrier,
and the lock welcomes it, the secret is read.