The Silent Rippling of the Shadow

On lime walls, in the quiet noon,
where time resides in golden dust,
no shout of wind, no whispered tune,
but the shadow stretches, a choir-less trust.

And within it, a tremor, like a wave without foam,
draws and deletes a delicate line,
a ripple born of fading light’s slow roam,
an art that whispers in a gentle sign.

Its motion holds no weight, no echo rings,
it is silent vibration on a slumbering wall,
an airy arabesque that never clings,
slips, distorts itself, then vanishes and recalls,
like an echo the eye alone can grasp.
A visual whisper, barely heard.