On nights when the air hums, tales of sadness and silence drift through like bits of folded paper.
Echoes of a childhood long past, where lullabies floated like lanterns on streams,
casting shadows in corners where light dared not go.
One stretches with the sound, hearing the invisible ripple,
as if stones flung ache to meet the hollow depths once known.
The rhythmic hush, a pedal dance hinting of rain—
or is it the shadowed hymn drummed on rooftops softly,
like a settling befriended echo on hidden stairs?
Lull the distant wind, let words dissipate
into patterns barely illustrating time.
Sleep, inevitably,
cradled by undersong.
Steps upon cobblestones, conversations unrelated strung beneath distant chandeliers—
fragments swallowing each other until night asks silent questions in sighs.
How do places hold their echoes? Age in sequence, somehow drawing near distant buzzing,
auroras running inexplicably wild around whispered orchestras.
Lastly, recall this name: Judith Marais, sculptor of dreams reshaped in aviary stillness.