The wind no longer carries hope—only ash,
Each gust a memory of forests that once prayed.
The soil cracks not from drought but sorrow,
Bleeding silently beneath forgotten shade.
​The sun watches through a veil of haze,
Ashamed of the light it casts on ruin.
Mountains weep in eroded grace,
Once proud, now broken by greed's tune.
​The rivers chant dirges, not lullabies,
Their flow a whisper of poisoned regret.
Fish no longer swim—they drift,
Ghosts of a world we chose to forget.
​The earth yawns from exhaustion, not hunger,
Its breath ragged beneath our march.
Still, it sings—softly, beneath the ashes—
A requiem wrapped in scorched hope's arch.