You spoke of my flowers softly, as if their names were prayers. You touched the soil with reverence, called it a cradle for our new airs. You gathered seeds like promises meant for gentler days— yet now I stand bewildered in this garden you once praised.
Do you love the flowers truly? The trees, the quiet green? Why prepare the waiting earth for a spring you’ve never seen? Why all the tender labor— the tools, the seeds, the care— when every sprout that dared to rise found only empty air?
Grass could have grown in carpets, flowers could have lit the ground, bushes could have whispered, and a forest could have crowned. But nothing rises, nothing blooms, though all was set to start— for you have locked your trembling heart, and silence guards that part.
What might have grown between us has withered into dust; the shoots that reached for sunlight fell back for lack of trust. And now the field lies hollow, its promise swept away— only aching solitude keeps watch at end of day. Atomm