A layered dome, half-split like a seed revealing its kernel,
inside which gears wink with violet light.
A pink channel feeds into its side,
drinking intention from a hidden reservoir.
Between the upper mechanism and the bell,
symbols drift—
circles, crescents, spirals—
the alphabet of motion mid-translation.
A long arm extends from the machine,
ending in a triangular grasp,
as if plucking sense from the air like fruit.
“To adjust the rhythm, bend the third reed.
To correct the meaning, tilt the lamp toward silence.”
This is The Translator of Quiet Motions,
a device built to record the speech of slowly moving objects—
rusting hinges, settling soil, sleeping machinery.
It is said that once,
during a long winter,
the machine documented the sound of a glacier dreaming.
And at the bottom, the final line:
“If the parchment begins to write itself,
do not interrupt.
It is only remembering what you forgot to tell it.”
The Maharajagar 