Beneath the clockwork of becoming
lies the layer of the possible,
a realm not bound by stars,
but by the fragment of their reasons.

There, Newton’s shade records,
light leans on the curve of itself,
motion kneels to the sum of energy,
and nothing outruns its own name.

Through that chamber drift
the seed-patterns of life,
folded, refolded,
until thought diffuses
like salt in water,
remembering its shape.

In the crystalline fields of number,
the primes walk endlessly apart,
each perfect in its solitude,
each knowing its neighbour only by distance.

And beyond them,
the thought-space blooms:
a wind of syntax,
a shimmer of unfinished theses.
All minds are its ripples,
each sentence a brief topology
of the eternal unsaid.

The atlas has no border.
It is drawn by everything that can be,
and read by everything that is.

We are its smallest syllables,
mortal,
yet speaking what the timeless cannot.