Made on
Tilda
No mountain marks it, no river’s bend, just a brass strip the world can tend. A meridian’s promise: wherever you roam, your coordinates lead you back toward home. A parallel thought
Time begins its measured race, from this invisible, sacred place. Every clock, every zone, every second’s beat — takes its cue from this line of heat. meridian coordinates
Where east meets west in a line of air, a cut of longitude, fine and fair. One foot in yesterday's fading light, one in tomorrow's unfolding night. No mountain marks it, no river’s bend, just