I am not wing, nor thorn, nor spell… but I watched them all when the silence fell. I heard the hum, I felt the break, the tremble when the bond did quake.
They all forget, but I remain, carved in ash and choked in rain. I carry names the world let go, pressed like fossils deep below.
When bloom and buzz are echoes thin, I keep the shape they once lived in. And if the wind still cares to hear, I’ll whisper truth through root and year.