Heaven trembles at the edge of thought
and slips away when we try to hold it.

It is the place where absence cannot enter,
and yet every longing arrives quietly,
like a feather carried on a wind no one sees.

Nothing is heavy,
and yet everything rests
in a fullness that sustains.

Colors hum, shapes breathe,
and the air itself remembers
every heart that has dared to hope.

It is not silent, yet no sound exists;
every echo is a presence
that answers itself without question.

Time dissolves,
and memory opens like a flower
whose petals contain
all beginnings and all endings.

Every glance carries the weight of eternity,
every touch whispers
that love is older than pain
and stronger than the world.

Heaven does not come to us,
because it has never left.
It flows beneath the eyes,
behind the ribs,
in the quiet chamber where the soul first knew its name.

To enter is to stop seeking,
yet to find everything that was sought.

It is a light that does not shine,
but awakens the seeing within;
a song that cannot be sung,
but moves the heart beyond knowing.

Here, the soul becomes fully itself,
and all that was hidden is revealed
as mercy, as beauty, as home.

No words can hold it,
and still every word trembles with its presence.