The contour of light
seems endless,
stealthily passing through
the dim, the thick wooden bridge
trod for centuries, soft ballads
blending with the wind
and those fallen leaves or has it basked
in silence,
the unprecedented rendezvous
for old souls beneath the silvery moon.
Wherefore art those
pens inking from the beating
of hearts,
or schemy joust of
the minds?
Are they named…
Are they loved…
or never–at all.