The Unseen Sculptor

In the dark throat of the mountain, a thread of water, cold as silver, finds the grain of the ancient basalt. It does not strike; it only stays.

The stone remembers the heat of its birth, the pressurized silence of the deep earth, now yielding to the patient pulse of wetness, one grain of sand surrendered at a time.

No chisel rings against this hollowed wall, only the rhythmic drip of liquid time, carving a cathedral for the blind salamander, where the ceiling learns to weep in arches.