The Warm Cradle of Evening

When the sun declines, weary and red,
and the air dances a cooler waltz,
another warmth has not yet been spread,
but watches, secret, over earth’s vaults.
It is the womb of walls, of stones absorbed,
that drank the day, its deep ray,
and now diffuses a sigh beyond the door,
a quiet promise to those who stay.

It is no flame that burns, nor steel-hard fire,
but mother’s caress, a tender gift,
that clothes the evening in soft desire,
whispering silence, ignoring the strife.
An invisible wave, slow and discreet,
that wraps the skin, unties every knot,
a solace for the soul, calm and complete,
a placid embrace that soothes every spot.

It lies there, in the shadow stretching long,
in the mute border of light and gloom,
where the earth, in its slumber, belongs
and cradles waiting without any tomb.
A slow beat, a bodily memory
of the celestial fire that blessed it,
the Warm Cradle, eternal choreo
of life awaiting its next ascent.