The Earth - A silent Elegy

It is the Earth. A living piece of clay, sculpted from stars and darkness, A cosmic wound, silent yet full of echoes. On its body, rivers carve maps of time, And its mountains, like petrified prayers, Rise toward a sky that does not answer. It asks for nothing but gives everything. From its boiling depths, It nourishes the life that has forgotten it. From its hard stones, it births soft places For its children to tread upon. Yet each step, each strike of the plow, Is a fresh wound on its ancient skin. It watches, in its immense silence, How its children harm it, How they squander its gifts, How they shatter its body for fleeting dreams. And still, it does not resist. It endures, a mute witness to its own tragedy, Knowing that time will always turn its face back. The Earth is not just a planet; It is an untold story, a hidden heart beneath the rocks, A suffering concealed in silence. The fire within its depths does not burn from anger But from the will to continue. It knows that humans, Those who tread so carelessly upon its chest, Are transient. It existed before them, And it will remain after they are gone. It does not hate them, though it has the right, It does not punish them, though it has the power. For it is pure patience, A silence deeper than any prayer. When the last human says farewell, When their noise becomes a memory, It will remain. Not because it is unscarred, But because its pain is eternal, As is its forgiveness. The Earth is silent, but in its silence Lies the entire meaning of life and death. It is the cradle and the grave, And in it, all is born And all returns.