Beneath the ash-grey skies of longing,
the earth breathes—not for you,
not for me, but for itself.
A pulse steady, undaunted by
the footsteps we leave behind.

You will see the shadows move,
and not ask why.
You will taste the salt of oceans past,
and still the waves will rise—
relentless, unforgiving, and free.

They bend, they whisper,
yes, they falter, but like the trees
that bow to the storm, they rise again.

I have walked through cobbled streets of sorrow,
where silence hums louder than hymns.
I have felt the crack of thunder in my chest—
but still I press forward, like the gull that rides the tempest.

Do you hear it? This rhythm beneath the quiet,
this song that shapes the rippling dawn?
It is there, between the bracken and stone,
between the promise of sky and its return to earth.

You cannot still it, nor should you try.
For even as I stumble, even as the gale bends me low,
I rise—not alone, but as one with the tide, with the soil,
with the breath that remains when all else fades.