Wind Among the Pages

In the attic sleeps a forgotten book,
dust that shines like tiny fires.
The faded cover keeps secrets
that time has not dared to close.
A breath brushes it and it becomes wind,
the pages rise up, free, without borders.
It carries stories that have no conclusion,
words suspended between speaking and after.
The wind crosses courtyards and dreams, nomadic,
cuts like a blade of light through the margins.
Unfinished stories re-tie themselves elsewhere,
echo of endings that were never told.
Thus the book lives, not closed but wandering,
we follow it, guided by the breath.
The events remain open, like indiscreet stars,
until the wind brings them back onto the palm of the world.