A child lifts a stone
as if it were a balloon.

In the palm of his hand
the world sways
like a glass sphere.

For a moment
it seems it will fall —
but it always returns
to the same silence.

There are no dolls anymore.
There are no fairy tales anymore.

Only a toy made of stone,
ringing without sound,
teaching the hand
to ask for nothing.

The child smiles
for no reason,
as if already forgetting
what breaking means.

That is all that remains
when childhood
turns into smoke.