Born from the hush between clouds,
the Silver Quill drifts through the high air,
its hollow stem filled with a captive gale.
Where it passes, the sky briefly remembers its own handwriting.
It inscribes poems on vapor,
maps of invisible currents traced in trembling light.
Those who find one fallen to earth are told to lift it gently —
for within its hollow shaft sleeps the echo
of every word the wind has ever carried.
“To write with air is to remember without weight.”
The Maharajagar 