In fields of white, we walk alone,
two brushstrokes on a canvas wide,
small figures moving through the snow,
lost in whispers side by side.
Each step a murmur, soft and slow,
a gentle mark, a fleeting trace,
a quiet song the silence knows,
of smallness bound to endless space.
No need to fill the open air,
no need for voices, sound, or sign,
for in the stillness, unaware,
we find our place, the world’s design.
Perhaps the silence isn’t bare—
it holds the words we never say,
a quiet peace, a tender prayer,
to leave, to linger, then fade away.
