Glyph

In the hush of script’s quiet realm,
a single glyph awakens—
a whisper carved in ink or stone,
its curve a secret, softly spoken.

It dances on the parchment’s breath,
a loop, a slash, a tender sigh,
each stroke a memory of hands
that traced the world before us, shy.

From ancient runes to modern type,
the glyph endures, unchanged, austere—
a bridge of meaning, stark and plain,
that links the mute to what we hear.

So let us trace its silent form,
respect the shape that bears our thought,
for in each humble, faithful mark
lies the whole language we have wrought.