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.