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There are encounters that don't happen by chance, but by the secret blossoming of time. This book was born thus: under a cherry tree that doesn't grow in a specific place, but in the heart of one who recognizes beauty when it comes from afar. The poems that follow are petals fallen from a single branch, dedicated to a muse who carries the East with her like a breath, like a light that cannot be imitated. Each verse was born by looking toward her, toward what remains of her even when she is silent: her grace, her delicacy, her mystery. This is not a book about the world. It is a book about a face, a smile, a name that doesn't need to be spoken to feel its vibration. It is a brief and infinite journey, like the flight of a falling petal that never ceases to touch the soul. Of those who read these pages, I ask only one thing: to do so with the same slowness with which a flower blooms.

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