11/06/2024
The fog hangs low, the air stands still,
As if the Earth herself is held against her will.
A quiet hush, a breathless plea,
The world is waiting—so it seems to me.
She calls me gently, with a silent sigh,
To bring back life, to help her rise,
Yet here I stand, in sorrow’s grip,
A heart weighed down, a breath that slips.
What happened, I ask, to make her weep?
The wounds of time, so vast, so deep.
I long to understand, to find the way
To breathe again, to heal the day.
But in this stillness, I too am caught,
Held by shadows of a battle fought.
The Earth is waiting, yet I stand still,
My soul too heavy, my heart too chill.
Still, she calls, her voice a breath,
A whisper soft against the death
Of dreams once bright, now dimmed with grief—
Yet in her cry, there’s still belief.
Perhaps, I think, if I could start,
To move, to breathe, to heal my heart,
I might return the breath she seeks,
And help the world—restore the weak.