Beyond the end
there is no emptiness,
but a quiet beginning.

What ceases
still lingers
in shapes we don't yet recognize.

Paper becomes soil,
words turn to dust,
even forgetting
finds a new name.

We return
to what was left unsaid,
to try again.

Not to repeat,
but to remake,
with the same hands,
and different eyes.

Everything ending
is just a bend
in the cycle
of meaning.