The world does not stop. Â
Its hands grind the hours to dust, Â
indifferent, relentless, Â
a machine that tears beauty from its roots. Â
They pave over wildness, Â
turn green to gray, Â
and laugh as they vanish into cities Â
built to collapse. Â
And I hate them for itâ Â
for the way they pass by Â
what remains, Â
too blind to see the tender rebellion Â
of a wildflower rising through cracked stone, Â
the stillness of a hill beneath an endless sky. Â
At fifty-five miles per hour, Â
they reduce the infinite to a blur, Â
a place they will never touch. Â
But I love the quiet, the overlooked. Â
The way moss clings to damp stone, Â
the faint pulse of water through soil, Â
the hum of life in a field mouseâs frantic dash. Â
A single blade of grass, Â
standing unbroken beneath the frost, Â
carries more grace than the world Â
they call progress. Â
For I, too, am a speck of dust, Â
being ground down by causality, Â
spun within the great indifference Â
of all that moves and does not see. Â
And yet I persistâ Â
a small thing against the weight, Â
an ember clutching at its warmth, Â
a whisper in the deafening void. Â
I want to scream, Â
not to stop the world, Â
but to make them see. Â
To make them hear the voice of moss, Â
the whisper of grass, Â
the soft rebellion of the unnoticed. Â
I want them to kneel Â
and lay their palms to the ground, Â
to feel what still endures beneath themâ Â
not in grandeur, Â
but in the quiet things Â
that will outlast their noise. Â
Let them say I was hollow. Â
Let them call me bitter, or ruined. Â
But let them know this:Â Â
Every fragile thing that stood defiant Â
held a piece of me within it, Â
a weight to steady its roots, Â
a breath to fan its fire. Â
And when they forget, Â
as they always will, Â
I will remain in the places they passed, Â
small and unseen, Â
but unbroken.