This life—
A breath in retreat,
An echo lost among hollow songs.

What profit dwells
In building kingdoms of noise
While the spirit wanes,
Untouched, unknown?

We celebrate illusions—
Chasing flickers of worth,
Naming refuse as reward,
Wading through comforts
That silence the soul.

And yet, the heart knows:
Not every light is warmth.
Not every climb is ascent.

The truth unravels—
A quiet reckoning:
All striving apart from Him
Is wind in closed hands.

So I declare,
With eyes unclouded—
There is no life,
No enduring flame,
Where Christ is not.