The Third Horseman

Those who can hear silence... already know its name. It comes... not with footsteps... but with absence. Where golden fields embraced the dawn, Only hollow winds remain. No blade was raised, No fire was born— Yet every harvest learned its pain. The scales awaken in the light, Balancing shadows over grain. The richer grows forbidden gold, The deeper grows the silent rain. An unseen conductor lifts his hand, Without touching a single string. Still every silent voice obeys The melody of hidden things. The Third Horseman... His name... Famine. Not with thunder. Not with flame. Not with rage. He arrives like winter breathing through the fields of hope. The scales he carries weigh heavier than kingdoms. Every breath becomes a price. No chains are seen, Yet echoes ring. No walls appear, Yet pathways fade. Velvet gloves conceal the touch Of hands that never leave a trace. A quiet gesture bends the tide, A whisper changes seasons' course. Invisible currents shape the night, Without revealing their true source. Who paints autumn inside the spring? Who teaches sunlight how not to sing? Who buries seeds beneath cold stone? Who asks the rain to leave alone? We remember... We hear... Yet the wind never answers... The Third Horseman... He breaks no gates— They open willingly. He scatters no ashes— The wind remembers for him. He speaks no name— Yet everyone knows. Where abundance once stood proudly... Silence learns to bloom. The scales... grow heavier... The light... grows thinner... The name... remains unspoken... Yet every soul already hears his breath. When bread disappears... Silence... becomes the loudest voice.