Time Between Cracks

Time breathes through the cracks of palaces,
a tepid sigh among bricks scratched by time.
Facades record hours with tiny tears,
and the night holds its breath for those who remain.
It sows dew upon the hands of memories,
pearls of frost that tremble at dawn’s touch.
Every footprint becomes a thirst for light,
and memory ties threads of yesterday.
The cracks open views where water sings,
a sunset whistle reflects in the courtyard.
On time’s velvets, steps of girls and men,
and the air remains suspended between promise and silence.
And time, curious, sows dew again.
On the hands of memories grows a tiny lawn.
Perhaps thus to breathe is to inhabit the present,
until morning lights itself anew through cracks.