The Scent of Silence

The place where silence is born
Smells not of absence – but of memory.
It is not a void – it is the scent of what has just departed.

Imagine a stone conservatory,
Covered in moss and old roses that no one ever picked.
It smells of the dust of long-unread books.
Of warm stone that has kept upon it the trace of the final ray of light.
Of dry sage ash that never burned –
But has already finished its prayer.

Of deep trees, in whose heart
The first word, which was never spoken, is still preserved.

Silence smells like the skin of old violins.
Like ink that never touched the paper.
Like an embrace that never happened –
But whose warmth managed to imprint itself upon the air.

This is not a fragrance – it is a state of being.
You do not breathe it in – you become it.
And if you hold your breath long enough –
You feel how this scent grows into your palms.

For silence always wants to be heard…
Precisely through the skin.