Seeds of sand
Silence is the shadow of kindness,
endings a whisper within beginnings.
Here, in this desert without refuge,
we move:
clay jars, cracked,
our voices dissolving into sand.
Hollow,
dust on our tongues,
we forget we were once water.
We do not know we are gone.
We do not feel
the tremor in another’s hand,
the river threading beneath their skin.
A grain of sand
cannot dream itself a forest.
Yet on certain nights,
when wind holds its breath
and stars slice the dark like knives,
something stirs,
a hymn buried in bone,
shaking dust loose.
For one small breath,
the jar remembers rain.
Morning returns,
thirst presses its weight again.
But what if
sand cannot dream of green,
yet the forest dreams of sand?
A root, deep in shadow,
holds our dust,
waiting for the storm
to call us back to life.
When silence breaks,
we will rise:
not radiant, not whole,
but hearts raw with waiting.
The desert will shudder,
the wind will bend,
and the sand
will learn the shape of trees.
A forest will root in us,
its branches heavy with birds
that sing because they cannot stop.
And we will understand:
death was only a held breath,
evil only a silent room.
Life has always been here,
pressed against our flaws,
waiting for us to open.
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