FR — La forêt était déjà là, dans mon tout premier morceau Suno. Elle manquait seulement de voix. Le détour par le français m’a permis d’en retrouver le souffle, avant de revenir à l’anglais avec un message plus clair. EN — The forest was already there, in my very first Suno song. It only lacked a stronger voice. The detour through French helped me recover its breath, before returning to English with a clearer message. The forest sleeps without a sound, not one heartbeat in the air. Not one breath beneath the rain, not one song inside the glare. We built our walls upon the roots, poured concrete over streams. Sold the sky to shining windows, then repainted all our dreams. The bees were first to disappear, with no farewell, no cry. Then the flowers closed the earth, like eyes too tired to ask why. The wolves became old bedtime tales, the deer were shadows trapped in books. And we called it something sad, as long as our cities kept their looks. Every branch that we have broken, every river we made still, comes back knocking in the silence where our sleeping conscience will. Where have the living gone? Who will remember their names? When the final song falls to the wind, who will answer for the flames? Where have the living gone? We turned the woods to fire. The Earth is humming our funeral hymn, and our hands still hold the fire. I saw a child inside the city ask if foxes once were real. If the whales beyond the islands truly sang beneath the waves. He asked why all the hands of men had let the nests fall down. Why the fields had turned so yellow when no life was searching round. No machine could give an answer, no screen could tell him why. The sky was slowly disappearing behind our towers, glass, and light. Every wing that fell in darkness, every seed we left behind, added one more name in silence to the graveyard of our kind. Where have the living gone? Who will remember their names? When the final song falls to the wind, who will answer for the flames? Where have the living gone? We turned the woods to fire. The Earth is humming our funeral hymn, and our hands still hold the fire. This is not silence. This is morning’s alarm. This is not absence. This is emptiness in our arms. We were never masters. We were never gods. Maybe every forest knew how to breathe better than us. But beneath the ashes, beneath the stone, something is still waiting to be called back home. Give voice back to the earth, give names back to the streams. Hold on to the light, spare the bird its wings. Give breath back to the rivers, give shade back to the reeds. If there is still a prayer, it is not too late to plead. Where have the living gone? Who will remember their names? When the final song falls to the wind, who will answer for the flames? Where have the living gone? We turned the woods to fire. The Earth is humming our funeral hymn, and our hands still hold the fire. The forest sleeps without a sound, but silence is not dead. If we kneel today, the wild may rise again.
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