Bottles gather like old monks
each label a scripture,
each cork a sealed memory,
they lean against one another
in the cathedral of dust and glass.

The radio hums,
its silver mouth cracked open,
feeding me fragments of the world—
voices drowned in static,
a heartbeat carried on waves.

Outside, leaves press their faces
to the windowpane,
green shadows whispering
that time still breathes beyond
this small wooden shrine.

Wine holds centuries in its throat,
yet I sip only silence,
wondering if the voices inside
the bottles speak the same
as those inside the box of air.

Here, in this room of echoes,
the world arrives in splinters.
I cradle the dial like a compass,
turning it slowly—
seeking a signal, seeking a prayer.