Beneath the hush, where afternoon unspools,
and golden dust drifts slow across the room,
the mind slips free of all its clever rules,
and thought dissolves like sugar into gloom.

The pulse forgets its rhythm, hour its name;
a tender weight of warmth begins to bloom.
Dream hums—a quiet, half-remembered flame,
then fades again into the downy womb.

Oh, gentle craft of yielding, sweet defeat—
to fall without ambition, plan, or pride;
to let the day recline, her breath discreet,
upon the breast of time unsatisfied.

In drowsy grace, the soul relearns her map—
how peace is found in one small stolen nap.