The Symphony of Unspoken Hearts: A Sonnet in the Language of Forgotten Whispers

Beneath the fractured clock of passing time,

we etch our names in dust on windowpanes—

a cursive script of shadows, soft, sublime,

where love’s first breath ignites in quiet strains.

You are the pause between the thunder’s cry,

the ache of autumn leaves that cling, then fall,

a half-stitched scar, a constellation’s sigh,

the braille of moonlight on an empty wall.

We do not speak of fire, yet still we burn—

our fingerprints on cups of lukewarm tea,

the unsung hymns that restless tides return,

a map of cracks where roots twist wild and free.

What’s love but gravity in borrowed skin?

A tide that kneels, yet rises once again.

It’s not the blaze, but ash that cradles embers,

the ghost of touch when winter dismembers.

So let the world unravel, thread by thread—

we’ll weave our dawn from whispers left unsaid.