Beneath the ash of forgotten skies,
her shadow learned to breathe
a whisper clawing through the tomb
of seasons clenched beneath.
The earth cracked open, raw and red,
as roots began to rise,
unfurling veins of stolen light
beneath the moon’s cold eyes.
She wore the scars of fallen stars,
her pulse a fractured hymn,
a symphony of dust and flame
that stirred the soil’s grim hymn.
They said the dead don’t dance, and yet
her bones hummed with the rain,
a rhythm born of buried seeds
and time’s unyielding chain.
The storm arrived to smother her,
its throat a roar of blame,
but she, a phoenix forged in frost,
thundered back her name.
Winter’s blade could not erase
the bloom beneath her skin;
she split the ice with ancient songs
only the brave begin.
Now dawn arrives with her for lungs,
her breath the wind’s refrain,
a wildfire wrapped in mortal flesh
the earth, alive, again.
And when the night insists on grief,
she laughs, a comet’s trail,
for death, she learned, is but a door
her soul refused to nail.
So let the galaxies grow dim,
let constellations wane
the universe now wears her voice:
she has returned, again.
©nino
N