The Alchemy of Emptiness
The empty drum travels farthest.
The cave with nothing inside
answers every call like thunder.
The politician’s chest swells
precisely because there is nothing else.
The activist’s tongue learned to fill silences
before it learned the weight of words.
I was once empty and did not know it.
I mistook the ringing in my ears for music.
I mistook the crowd’s reflection for a face.
Power fills the empty like water into drought
greedily, gratefully, completely.
But power drains.
It always leaves behind
a larger emptiness
and a louder voice
trying to convince itself
it is still full.
Perhaps the true alchemy
is not turning emptiness into gold,
but sitting quietly with the space inside,
without needing to fill it
with noise.
Here is what the empty drum never learns:
the struck sound fades,
but the wood remains.
And wood, left alone,
can learn to hold
not echo,
but warmth.
(The figure man who loves alphabets)
