Dream Traveler

In the sky, drifting like jasmine tea,
Where clouds are a veil from an old dream,
Hung the Room-Echo – bottomless,
On a thread of silence, devoid of ground.

Its walls – woven of memory and rustle,
Like leaves shedding into the body,
And on the floor – a clock, shattered to a whisper,
With fragments of time, like a heart without a whole.

There, a child sat on a faceless chair,
Hands – transparent, made of water and tenderness.
In their palms – a paper bird from a letter
That no one will ever open.

On its folds – the words: “love,” “waited,” “forgive” –
But the ink had long turned to dust.

And then She appeared – the Dream Traveler.
Without knocking or doors – for dreams have no locks.
Each of her steps – the touch of a memory without words,
An echo of a lullaby from the depths of ages.

She does not ask – she leans toward the shoulder.
And the child – for the first time – lifts their head.
Instead of a face – there is light.
Not the kind that cuts, but the kind that wakes the soul.

Light that smells of bread and a mother’s scarf,
Of a morning where pain had not yet settled.
“Did you come?” the child whispered tenderly,
“I have waited so long…”

The paper bird quietly comes to life:
It spreads its wings – and flies toward the infinite.
The Traveler places her palm on the child’s chest –
And the first fragment of Light settles within.

It becomes a coal – warm as a memory
Of something that never happened, but left a trace.
The room dissolves into whispers…
And She goes further – with Light within herself.

For ahead – there are many more souls
Who wait for a touch and for healing.