Hush, little bird, though your cries ring true,
The weight of what’s coming hangs over you.
You speak of a sky too heavy to hold,
Of a world too weary, of lives grown cold.
Yes, rivers fade and forests fall,
And humankind, blind, heeds no call.
Each thread they pull, each fire they light,
Tugs closer the end of their fleeting might.
But little bird, lift your weary eyes—
There’s beauty still where ruin lies.
The earth will heal when the noise is done,
When silence blooms under a gentler sun.
Fields will rise where the towers stood,
Roots will drink what was spilt as blood.
The seas will churn, the storms will sing,
And life will burst in the heart of spring.
Hush, little bird, there’s grace in the end,
A cycle no hand can break or bend.
For nature waits with patient might,
To cradle the dark and birth the light.
So let them falter, let them fall,
Their echoes faint, their shadows small.
A better world, post-human reign,
Awaits in the wake of their fleeting pain.
Sing not of doom, but what’s to be,
A quiet earth, reborn, set free.
Hush, little bird, your fears may rest—
The world will thrive, in time, refreshed.