Underneath the last breath of storms, A hush of silver moss returns, The air tastes like forgotten songs, Where time no longer burns. Clouds speak in syllables slow, Their language drawn in vapor lines, Each step echoes through softened stone, Where absence softly aligns. We are the aftersound, the hush that hums, Through trembling veins of ash and loam. Not born again, but merely spun In threads that twist, that dream, that roam. No banners raised, no final cry, Just drifting seeds of what once meant. The sky wears robes of quiet dyes, And we — we start to reinvent. There is no need for light to fall, No blaze to carve the way. Joy lives in shadows on the wall, And learns the dance of grey. We are the aftersound, the hush that hums, Through trembling veins of ash and loam. Not born again, but merely spun In threads that twist, that dream, that roam.
