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Poem
If everyone were to disappear, but everything remained unchanged,
The world would be a vast cathedral of the echo of regret,
Where empty streets silently carry the ghosts of choices,
Those fragile threads that bound us in the dance of life.
The masters we chose—greed, apathy, comfort—
Would be shadow sculptures in the architecture of our absence,
And you, like a wandering specter, would be the invisible witness
To a landscape breathing our deeply ingrained indifference.
The sky, shrouded in flames of memories over lost cities,
Would burn not just with fire but with memory clinging to time,
Whispering in the merciless silence of the wind through abandoned homes,
The creaking of rusted gates becoming a chorus of unfulfillment.
The smoke from the chimney, once a symbol of warmth, now spits bitterness,
Dry leaves, like torn pages from forgotten stories, dance alone,
Scratching the earth with whispers sounding like a hidden confession,
Asking in every echo: where were you when it truly mattered?
What if this were the end, not with a cataclysm of fire,
But with a slow unraveling, a silent disappearance into the night,
Where humanity slips into the abyss, leaving the world empty,
And in that silence, you feel absence in the marrow of your being.
Would you feel contempt for the chosen masters in those fractured moments?
Or self-betrayal, a deep and constant pain,
For the soul you abandoned in the pursuit of desires?
In this end, there are no heroes, only the relentless truth,
Reflected in the lifeless eyes of the world left behind.
The most dreadful part is not the disappearance, but the drifting,
The watching, the knowing. It’s not just the world that’s empty—you are too,
And in the haunting silence of the place once called home,
You finally realize: absence is not just a void. It is a mirror.
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