XII
In the chambers of this quiet house,
Where echoes fall like unlit stars,
A stillness grows, sharp as frost,
Binding the air with invisible scars.
XIV
Speech, that restless pilgrim,
Wanders far from this abode,
And in its absence, solitude blooms,
A garden where shadows erode.
XV
I do not fear this cloistered quiet,
Nor do I loathe its cold embrace;
In its depths, I find a mirror,
Reflecting truths I dared not face.
XVI
What is speech but a tempest’s cry,
Tearing the fabric of thought’s calm sea?
In silence, the waters settle,
Revealing the depths of what could be.
XVII
The cold between us is a gift unbidden,
A corridor to realms unseen;
Through this quiet, I walk alone,
Toward a light both fierce and clean.
XVIII
My words, once a gilded armor,
May have weighed my spirit down;
Now I shed their restless clamor,
And wear the stillness like a crown.
XIX
If silence becomes the lasting thread,
Binding the walls of this fragile home,
Its permanence would be a priceless gain—
A sanctuary where I can roam.
XX
Let the world’s noise rage beyond,
Here, within, the quiet reigns;
Solitude, my timeless mentor,
Teaches me to break old chains.
XXI
This violence of silence, sharp and cold,
Cuts away the excess, reveals the core;
I will follow its path to the threshold,
And step through to a self restored.
