À Terre
We step beyond the painted glow,
where music fades and echoes slow.
Silken grace in shadows cast,
yet now, we walk as time drifts past.
No satin binds our fleeting tread,
just worn-out soles where dreams have bled.
Yet still, we hold that quiet air,
of fleeting flight once danced midair.
Between the stage and city stone,
we find a space to call our own.
A breath, a pause—then on we go,
our whispered steps still laced with show.
MARIA VIKTOR 