The sun bows slowly, mourning the lost son,
a candle flickers—one last breath,
whispered through a temple of fallen dust,
where the wind kneels—where silence feels like comfort,
cut from the cloth of the wordless sky. Here we stand.

A hand traces the names on ancient stone,
a name once worn, now barely warn.
The years have left their weight, as there they wait,
each carefully carved letter like a jagged might,
though the body’s gone, the soul’s still sight.

She told him once: "Sow your steps where light still sews,
pare your grief where rivers flows
let no weight of loss take more than air
never will you find me, neither here nor there."
She smiled then—bare in truth, yet strong as bear,
roaring loudly at eternity,
spinning the cosmos into a mother’s care,
a fallen sigh, her golden hair.

The clock hands turn slow, but time still stares,
each tick a tremor, a time we remember—each tock a tare.
He stands at the edge of then and there,
where memories bend like a bending bare,
where fate unwinds with a tangled wear.

A voice hums soft in the scented breeze:
"Your soul is stitched into the stars with ease,
your love is more than what the world still maars or sees.
When I was here, you held me dear,
but know this now—I was never mere."

The sea replies in endless waves,
pulling the past through endless days,
unfolding time in fleeting new ways,
where loss is love that never waives.
Where death is just the name of change,
where love is light in shifting veins.

He turns, he walks, his shadow sores,
each step an echo, yet never sore.
The world moves on—his grief takes form,
but she’s still born, through breath, through storm.

Through ink on pages, through words that write,
through every wrong that turns to right.
She lingers not in earth nor stone
but in the rite of all unknown.