Once, it hummed with the breath of rivers,
With winds that danced over entrails fields,
With mountains rising like silent guardians,
Holding the weight of the sky.

Once, the first whisper secrets,
To the rod that curled beneath them?
And oceans sang to the distant stars,
Rocked by the moon’s steady hand.

Now, silence thickens in the air,
Where voices of storms have quieted.
The rivers are ghosts of their former selves,
Their beds cracked like ancient bones.

Ye trees stand brittle, skeletal,
Reaching for the rain that will never come.
The air, once soft with the scent of Earth, is dust and ash, curling in the wind.

And the sky- once blue, once endless-
Wears a shroud of dying light,
Fading into the cold, into the void,
Where even the stars have turned away.

A world unmade, a heart unwound,
A silence no wind will break,
Nothing left to bare witness,
But the echo of what once was.

The void is not empty,
But full of hunger.
It shallows sound, shallows time,
A patient mouth, opens and waiting.

No edges, no walls,
Only the stretch of absence,
A silence so deep it hums,
A space so vast it presses inward.

You fall into in,
But your voice dissolves,
Pull apart thread by thread,
Until even the memory of sound is lost.

Here, the stars are distant ghosts,
Flickering in the periphery before vanishing,
But the weight of nothing,
Crushes you all the same.

There is no light, no shadow,
Only the endless breath, of something that doesn’t breath,
The echo of something, that was never there.

A single leaf, a golden flame,
Clings to the branch, alone, untamed.
Others dance in the wind’s soft song,
But this one lingered, holding on.

The sky grows still, a breathless hush,
The world wrapped in November’s blush.
The down it drifts, a whispered sigh,
A quiet end beneath the sky.

No fanfare meets its final fight,
Just fading light, and calming white.

It started like morning, a soft golden thread,
A melody drifting where angels might tread.
The notes were like sunlight through leaves on the floor,
A tune that felt ancient, and nothing felt more.

It carried through stillness, it danced through the air,
Each sound was a promise, each silence a prayer.
A lullaby woven from starlight and breath,
So tender it lulled even sorrow to death.

But then came a tremor—so slight, so unsure,
A dissonant ripple that curdled the pure.
One note fell sideways, then faltered, then cried,
As if something sacred had twisted inside.

Harmonies tangled, like vines in the throat,
The sweetness now cloying, each lyric a coat.
For something far colder that crept from below,
A beauty deformed by the need not to show.

The song still remembered the shape it once wore,
But now it rang hollow, a locked, rusted door.
It played itself backward, then shattered apart,
A haunting, a hunger, the echo of art.

And still it keeps playing in corners, in sleep,
A song once so lovely, now buried too deep.
A tune you once trusted, now twisted and wild,
The voice of a nightmare that first sang you mild.

The sun melts into the horizon,
Spilling gold and crimson across the sky,
A slow burning ember fading,
Pulling the day into its final breath.

For a moment, time lingers,
Caught between what was and what will be,
Before the last light sinks below,
And night unfolds its waiting arms.

In shadows cast by ancient rule,
Where silence served the tyrant’s tool,
A whisper stirred the sleeping air—
A breath, a spark, a bold dare.

The streets were cold, the sky was gray,
But hearts grew loud with things to say.
The drums of doubt began to pound,
As truth rose up from underground.

A single voice, then two, then more,
Broke through the cracks of fear and war.
No longer bowed, no longer chained,
They named the price, and none refrained.

A banner raised, not stitched with gold,
But inked with hopes the brave had told.
Each word a wound, each tear a flame,
Each step a storm, each face a name.

The world stood still—then shook and spun,
As dawn announced what must be done.
Not with a roar, but with a song,
The revolution had begun.