In a hidden realm beyond the edges of the world,  
There was once a kingdom called Shiro,  
A name whispered like forgotten memories in the wind,  
Life’s stories vanished into the void—  
As light as a bird’s feather in the shadow of the gray mountains,  
Like the pale sorrows that blanketed the kingdom’s edges.  

But Shiro, the child of a Phoenix,  
Stood on the unknown soil of those silent plains—  
Where winter leaves quietly fell,  
As if offering a secret sign of sorrow.  
Shiro knew the song of rebirth echoed deep within his heart,  
Where seeds of dreams were planted as the black night thickened.  

One day, beneath the gray sky,  
Shiro saw the fields of dreams—  
Everything was bathed in the quiet light of eternal stars.  
The stars called out to him,  
“This land will be born again from the womb of emptiness.”  
Shiro believed, even in the cold grip of death,  
That one day a flower of fire would bloom,  
That the storm of flames within him would rise again.  

And then, like a Phoenix,  
Shiro hid his old sorrows beneath his wings,  
The ashes of old dreams—  
From which the seeds of a new world would grow.  
Like a Phoenix, his past burned away,  
And a new life was born from the womb of emptiness.  
It seemed as if a song of fire burned in the air around him.  
So, was this fire always within him?  
Or was there a dormant dream hidden beneath the soil?  
Shiro asked this with every breath—  
In each sleepless night, his dreams played silent tunes,  
As if they knew his future.  

Shiro felt a new life rising from the earth,  
Before he turned to ashes,  
He planted the seeds of his life beneath the ground—  
Hidden beneath the wings of the Phoenix was a secret story,  
And under each feather lay fragments of dreams.  

In their shadow, he birthed a new history,  
As if he always knew his flame would never die.  
The stars once told Shiro,  
“You are eternal, like the rebirth of the Phoenix.”  
Shiro knew then that time would never touch him.  
Yet he would be born again, only to burn once more—  
In this cycle of rebirth, he would live immortal,  
As if he were a story carried on the winds of an ancient tale.  

And still, Shiro’s dreams remained silent,  
As if they were waiting for the seeds to be planted again,  
To build a new life under a new sun.  
Shiro asked himself,  
“What tune plays in this life, what dream floats in this world?”  
He found his answer within the shadows,  
Where the sky touched the earth,  
Where fire and shadow merged into one.  

Written on his Phoenix wings was a map of dreams—  
A map leading to a silent city,  
Where stardust floated in the air,  
And within each speck, a new world lay hidden.  
Shiro knew that within this world,  
There was always a fire of rebirth hidden deep.  
So, does everything come from fire?  
Or does something new begin from the ashes of every life?  
Shiro thought then that perhaps each of his dreams  
Would bloom again like a flower of fire,  
Burning away old memories,  
Giving birth to the shadow of a new day.  

And yet, within him, an immortal tune would always play—  
As if he had witnessed every birth of the world,  
As if he had seen every rebirth of the Phoenix.  
So, is the Phoenix’s seed like a dream?  
Hidden beneath the earth,  
Waiting for those who can only see the flowers of fire.  

One day, Shiro planted that seed,  
Where his flame and shadow merged.  
Then he knew that this world would never end—  
Life would be born again, from the ashes,  
And written on every Phoenix’s wing  
Would be a new story of dreams.