There is a voice not of syllables or sound,
not of vowels stitched to breath,
it hides in the pulse beneath your skin,
it hums in the marrow of mountains split open
and rivers unchained.

It speaks in the bend of the trees,
where the wind aches to be known,
and in the spaces between heartbeats,
where silence clings like ash.

It is the cry of stars unravelling,
light-years collapsing into whispers
only felt by those who listen with their bones,
with the roots, they bury in the earth's tender belly.

You cannot grasp it with language,
it evades the tongue's traps,
a wild thing caught in the thicket
of forgotten dreams.

But if you sit still enough,
let the world crack open your chest,
you'll feel it moving through you,
the speech of things unsaid,
an ancient rhythm, that all the noise
has taught you to forget.

Listen.