The book opens, and the night begins. The hand that holds it does not tremble. In the other, a bird that is not a bird. The sky is written in the margins.   Each word is a door left ajar. A semicircle of light guards the forehead. Memory rises like mist from the pages. The skull listens, but does not speak.   The owl has seen all things forgotten. It wears the green of the first morning. The cup tilts—no liquid, only longing. What flies does not always return.   What is read does not always remain. The night is inside the book. The book is inside the mind. The mind is inside the silence.   The owl waits, because it must. The skull waits, because it knows. One hand closes the book, but not the dream. The owl blinks, and the world continues.