Fragment of a Dream

The heights gather themselves like a living weather. They rise with intention, shoulders bruised by old storms, their voices layered and musical, a many-throated clamor that presses warmly against the ear. Stone exhales heat remembered from its first making. Desire hums through the ridgelines, bright and restless, shaping and reshaping the air. Dreams linger here without strain. They open slowly, like hands unclenching, willing at last to speak.

Within this charged hush rests the salamandrine lyre. It glows as though warmed from within, lacquered with a patient fire. Its strings quiver with a joy learned from flame, tuned by centuries of listening. Each filament holds a memory of sparks leaping upward, of ash learning flight. The instrument waits without impatience, certain that touch will arrive. When it does, sound will rise cleanly, curling through the heights with supple confidence, a song that knows its own strength.

Below, the river carries time with an easy elegance. It turns and turns again, silvered and supple, its surface alive with glances of sky. The water learns new shapes each second and releases them without regret. It feels ancient and immediate at once, intimate as breath. Voices ripple within it, playful and wise, telling stories shaped from motion. The river smiles through sound, a low music that welcomes attention. Anyone who listens feels steadied, as though the current has already made room for them.

Light lives here, tender and persistent. It arrives as a remembered warmth, a glow cupped carefully against the dark. It drifts like pollen, catching on stone and skin, illuminating faces softened by recognition. This light understands patience. It flickers with invitation, never demanding, always offering. Figures gather within its reach, travelers paused mid-thought, their expressions eased by the sense of having arrived somewhere meaningful.

The river responds, swelling with quiet pleasure. Its sound deepens, carrying a long breath that travels inward. The sigh reaches the heart and settles there gently, a resonance that feels earned rather than imposed. In that moment, landscape and listener share a rhythm. Heights, water, flame, and flesh align in a calm accord.

Here, nothing strains to be revealed. Meaning ripens on its own. Fire remembers its joy. Water keeps its promises. Light continues its patient work. And the heart, hearing all of this at once, recognizes the rare comfort of belonging to a world that welcomes attention and answers it with grace.