The world is burning,
Matter dissolves —
Forms collapse —
the temples, the empires,
the names etched on marble.
Even the body,
faithful companion,
bends to the law of fading.
But what is form
but the shadow of becoming?
And yet,
essence remains —
not the monuments,
not the crowns,
but the invisible pulse
that binds us.
It survives the fire,
travels through the ashes,
and whispers:
“You are more than what perishes.
You are the song,
not the instrument.”

The cities fall into sparks,
the towers bow into ash,
and still the stars
scatter their infinite silence.
What is consumed here
is reborn elsewhere,
for the cosmos has no waste,
only transformation.

We are flames too,
brief torches of awareness
wandering through the night of time.
Our suffering is not the end,
but the beginning of vision.
Through the smoke of endings
we glimpse the open horizon—
where fire becomes light,
and light becomes love.

The world in flames
is not the world perishing,
but the world remembering
its eternal source.

My mom told me:
when you walk through sorrow,
do not fear the shadows
they are only the night’s way
of teaching you the stars.
you are not just a child of mine,
you are a child of the universe
born from fire,
shaped by silence,
destined for infinity.
And when I asked her,
“what is the meaning of all this?”
she smiled,
and said:
to live is to remember
that you are more than yourself,
that the cosmos speaks in your breath,
and every goodbye
is the seed of another hello.

Beyond death and life there is no separation, no frontier, no fixed boundary. What we call life and death are only names that thought has invented, abstractions to divide the indivisible, shadows drawn upon the infinite. Existence itself is seamless.

Life does not begin, as a flame suddenly born from nothing; nor does death end it, as if the flame were blown into emptiness. Life is the flame and death is the smoke — both movements of fire, both expressions of the same unseen source.

The river flows toward the sea. We say: the river dies there. But the sea replies: the river has always been mine. The star burns and collapses. We say: the star is lost. Yet its light travels across centuries, touching eyes not yet born. Nothing is lost. Nothing is separate.

Death is not the opposite of life; it is the hidden curve of the same circle. The wave rises and falls, but the ocean remains. To cling to the wave is to fear its end. To see the ocean is to know that the wave was never apart.

Beyond death and life is the abyss of nothingness — not a void of absence, but a womb of possibility. From this abyss the opposites emerge: presence and absence, form and formlessness, being and non-being. They unfold for a time, they dance, they dissolve, and they return. The abyss is not against them; it is within them. Every opposite carries in its heart the silence of its own dissolution.

To see this is to awaken. Fear falls away, for there is nothing to lose. Grief softens, for absence is another face of presence. Love deepens, for the beloved is never gone, only transformed.

Beyond death and life, we discover the transparency of being: full and empty at once, radiant and silent, ephemeral and eternal. We are not born, and we do not die. We appear, we disappear, we reappear — but always we are the universe unfolding itself.

The cosmos breathes, and we are its breath. The abyss dreams, and we are its dream. Beyond death and life, there is only the One — endless, seamless, indivisible.

The end of certainty is not the end of the world,
but the dawn of a deeper vision.
We believed the earth was solid, the heavens unshaken,
the laws eternal and unmoving.
Yet beneath every stone lies movement,
within every silence—an echo of change.

Certainty was our shelter,
but also our prison.
It closed the doors of imagination,
it chained the infinite to the finite.
Now the walls have fallen.
We see the universe not as a machine,
but as a mystery—
a flowing river of becoming.

The end of certainty is the beginning of freedom.
To live without anchors,
to walk among paradoxes,
to welcome uncertainty as the companion of truth.
In the vast sky of unknowing,
we discover the stars of possibility.

Here begins our journey—
from the ruins of the absolute
to the open horizon of the infinite.

The earth is not yours, not mine —
it is the breathing body of all.
The stars are not strangers,
they burn in our blood,
they echo in our thoughts.

To wound another
is to wound the sky,
to heal another
is to heal the whole.

We are not many, we are one life,
one dream dreaming itself
in a thousand forms.

And when we awaken,
the walls will vanish,
and we will remember:

No border holds us,
no wall divides the breath —
the air of your lungs
is the same wind that moves the oceans,
the same whisper that stirs
the heart of a stranger.

After death,
I will not be gone—
I will be wind, touching your skin,
I will be silence, deep within.

The body fades, the name dissolves,
But the soul—
The soul returns to the rhythm of stars,
To the breath before beginnings,
To the light that dreams all forms.

There is no end,
Only a door swinging inward.
I become the question and the answer,
The seed, the flame, the sky undone.

I will not speak,
But you will feel me in stillness—
When time pauses,
And your heart remembers
That it too is part of the infinite.

Death is not loss,
But a returning to source.
A merging with the song
That sings through all.

So do not mourn—
I have not vanished.
I have returned to everything.

He’s seen the rise, he’s seen the fall,
The hands of fate, he’s touched them all.
Through love and loss, through war and peace,
His journey never finds release.
A wanderer with weary eyes,
Chasing moons in endless skies.
No start, no end, no final stand—
The Forever Man.
Through ages old and years unborn,
He walks the earth, weathered and worn.
A face untouched by time’s embrace,
Yet burdened by each fleeting place.
He’s watched the empires rise and burn,
Loved and lost with no return.
The hands he’s held have turned to dust,
Yet onward still—because he must.
The forever man.