A golden hush, a river’s grace,
It spills, it sways, it leaves no trace.
The sun dissolves in amber thread,
Yet hunger lingers, quiet, fed.

A trembling sip, a whispered plea,
A taste of what may never be.
The sweetness sings, the longing burns,
A love that gives, a love that turns.

It drips between the cracks of time,
A fleeting kiss, a fleeting crime.
Yet even gods with lips divine,
Still thirst for what they claim as mine.

And when the flood retreats in shame,
When echoes hush the spoken name,
The aftertaste still calls, still cries,
Like ghosts that live in starving skies.