The Transient Map of Frost

On the icy glass, an unforeseen trace,
of humid air that seeks a foothold.
A subtle veil, barely to be seen,
is born in silence, without any whisper.

A map is drawn, with no end or route,
of pure rivers and islands of nothingness.
A transparent universe, drop by drop,
where every curve is an ephemeral bubble.

Then, the dew yields, vanishes and dissolves,
like a secret whispered at morning.
Only a tremor remains, and memory wraps
that fragile drawing, without a destiny.