She planted small hopes
in the cracks of a dying world—
timid sprouts, fragile but defiant,
pushing through the ash.

Even as the sky forgets the sun,
her dirt-scored hands
remember the language of survival.
A faint stir rises within the earth—
roots quivering beneath barren soil,
aching for water's warm touch.

The air hangs thick,
against the cold truths
of metal machines—
her ears strain for warmth,
her hands sink into the ground,
seeking a quiet song.

The soil clings—ancient, enduring,
unbroken by decay.
She kneels, and in that moment,
the dirt softens beneath her—
It cradles her hope,
a green breath
in a place the sky forgot.

And still, she moves,
as if her breath
might wake the heavens—
as if the softness of her hope
could dispel the dark.