folded into the frills of magnolia, crimson, in a paper fold,
unnoticed under secret mirrors, unfurled in a slow hurry,
the blank script reads itself upside-down...
if only for a moment, while dancing,
a stretch of the earth would reach the crease of the letters,
shaping the familiar periphery of the core,
forming words to be heard but not spoken,
abbreviated centuries of whispers...
and for a moment, after a folded skirt is hung,
muted nightingales perch in reverse on the bar,
pouting in unison as if they were wordlessly translating cryptic messages into verse, evaporating riddles of the summit...
you shall be the queen of that moment, unfolded in a slow hurry,
and it will understand you fully, at once and for all time.
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