Thrush! Are you not?! Alas! your voice echoes inside, inside my ear, deep, like water that remembers the moon. Why do you resonate so far, dear one— come close to me, skin, breath. Touch me with the quietness of your brows, the still calm that sleeps upon your face. Come closer, till the space between us folds like a dream, till air forgets it was ever empty. I need not speak. I need not hear. For you already sound within me, like the first vibration of creation— a distant galaxy trembling through the bone of time. If my skin fades with your touch, curse me, crush me, but do not depart. Let me die inside your nearness rather than live a thousand cold eternities apart. Even ruin will remember you. O thrush, strange voice of morning, what are you but breath made holy? You sing not for the ear but for the unseen, not for men but for the space between their hearts. I see you not, yet I feel your wings moving inside my ribs. Perhaps you are the same lost whisper that left Eden with the wind. Your song does not belong to time— it weaves past into unborn hours, and binds dust to light. And I— I am the listener, the echo you shaped into flesh, the longing that gives your silence meaning. Come nearer still. Breathe upon my breath. Let centuries fall like ash, and let this moment stand before all creation. If I vanish beneath your grace, let me vanish wholly. Let no name, no trace remain— only the faint shimmer of your voice wandering in my bones. O thrush, eternal wanderer, sing again— for your voice is the lamp in the unseen temple, the sound that makes silence holy.