Time Between the Curtains

Time breathes among the threads of curtains
and whispers to the corner of the room,
letting emerge maps of cities never born
that tremble sweetly between silk and dust.
The folds tell of roads that do not exist,
branching dreams, lights yet unlit;
every cross is a promise of new destiny,
and air draws names upon the light walls.
Dawn stretches the first horizon,
the nascent city breaks into breaths of glass,
and time, curious architect, signs the paper
that tomorrow might call itself home, or simple trace.