Blind eyes see further than the ones that see… Count my tears — tomorrow lives in them. He read the stars like veins across the world, Locked centuries in verses, four by four, Spoke in riddles so the truth would not be burned, Left us keys — find them, if you're sure. She heard a voice beyond the wall of silence, Saw the faces of the ones not yet born, Her blindness was a language, not an absence — Darkness taught her how to see the storm. Two prophets — two mirrors of the same time, One writes in shadow, one in blinded light, Their words scattered like seeds across the line, And rose through centuries, through smoke, through night. Nostradamus and Vanga — one echo, two voices, A single vision, split into two, Their prophecies are threads that make no choices, Fate keeps speaking through the both of you. He saw the fire fall on burning towns, She saw the water where no sea should be, Different signs, but one truth wears no crown: The future's written in the dark, not certainty. The blind and the seer, both lost in the dark, One saw the shape, and one — the color's name, Their voices meet here, rising past the arc, Where our own line runs out, and has no frame. Nostradamus and Vanga — one echo, two voices, A single vision, split into two, Their prophecies are threads that make no choices, Fate keeps speaking through the both of you. Listen to the silence — their last word waits there… …and it hasn't been spoken yet.
