The Stretched Membrane of the Instant

In the suspended moment, before the collapse,
between the smooth edge and the invisible ground,
a drop breathes, spherical and taut,
membrane of quietude, a promise held.
It knows neither of a river, nor of deep sea,
but only of the void that circles it around.

Internal tension, an unseen vault,
guardian of light, of a fragile sign.
It reflects a flash, distorts a boundary,
unaware of the weight that soon will pierce it.
A minuscule world that has no roots,
defying the pushes, the silent roots.

Then a tremor, a veil yielding to touch,
the perfect form breaks into a flurry.
It does not weep for the end, nor fear its course,
only a mute whisper in its brief passage.
Divided into billions, dissolved, distant,
time swallows it, a vain trace.