In our world, we write names in stone.
We gather flowers. We bow our heads. We speak of forever.
But out there?
The forest does not pause. The river does not weep.
Only the wind carries what is gone.
And yet… a lone elephant stands.
Its trunk resting on bones grown cold.
Not for hunger. Not for shelter.
But for something that refuses to be explained.
We imagine grief belongs to us.
That sorrow is stitched from language, and memory is a human thread.
But the wild whispers differently.
Here, beneath the open sky, no witness waits.
No ritual, no hymn, no script.
And still — it lingers.
Maybe not in words.
Maybe not in reason.
But in silence that refuses to move.
Because even beyond our walls and prayers,
life aches when it loses life.
And sometimes, the vast earth itself
feels a quiet, aching weight.
© Umclite
U
In our world, we write names in stone. We gather flowers. We bow our heads. We…
