Upon the table’s quiet face,
A universe spun from past days,
Each speck a faded dream that stays,
A whisper left where sunlight plays.

Unseen, it slowly drifts and lands,
A gentle shroud on wood and glass,
Soft fingerprints from ghostly hands,
A chronicle we let amass.

It gathers where our fingers slide,
In corners where our gazes pause,
A ledger of what Time divides—
Dust scripting echoes of what was.

A galaxy in muted gray,
Each speck a star, each coat of time;
We sweep it out, but it will stay—
A cycle woven in dust and rhyme.

It wraps an heirloom’s fragile rim,
A photograph, a wedding ring,
A record kept when light grows dim,
Of every ordinary thing.

Yet in this ash, the cosmos hides—
The bones of stars, the breath of kin,
The universe that time divides
Returns to rest, and starts again.

A shroud for kings, a bed for seeds,
The weightless anchor of our days,
It holds the script of all our deeds,
Then lifts them on the sun’s pale rays.

So let it lie, this quiet veil,
A paradox, both grave and birth;
The dust we curse, the dust we hail—
The smallest weight that shapes the Earth.