The engines stilled; voices faded, withdrawn.
No current’s hum, no echo of command.
A spectral quiet settled, dusk to dawn,
Draped silence, vast and holy, on the land.

At first, a void—where shadows seemed to creep,
Then wind emerged, a sigh through ancient trees,
Whispering secrets that buried stones still keep,
A language carried on the patient breeze.

Next, water’s voice: the river’s gentle flow,
The ocean’s rhythm on a lonely shore,
The rain’s soft patter on the leaves below—
Life’s liquid pulse, unnoticed, lost before.

Then earth itself—the groan of shifting stone,
The mountain’s murmur, deep and slow and old,
The crack of ice where frozen streams had grown,
The planet’s ancient heartbeat, fierce and bold.

Then creatures sang: the wolf’s lone howl out of sight,
The cricket’s chirp, the eagle’s sovereign call,
The rustle where keen hunters prowl at night—
The wild’s raw beauty, rising past the wall.

Then inner sounds—the pulse within the wrist,
The breath that flows like tides against the skin,
The mind’s own murmur in the deepening mist—
The soul laid bare, cleansed of the world’s loud din.

We felt Time’s weight—the stars’ cold, distant chime,
The root’s slow climb, the petal breaking hold,
The patient turn of seasons, grand, sublime—
Eternity in fleeting moments told.

At last, we heard what silence truly breeds:
Not emptiness, but life’s presence vast and deep—
The universe in every blade and seed,
And in that quiet, wisdom long lost to sleep.

For silence showed the world was never still,
But thrummed with life that noise had long concealed—
A cosmic hymn no human craft could kill,
And in that sound, our souls stood bare, revealed.

So here we chase our purpose through the din,
Mistaking noise for proof that we exist—
We build and strive, yet lose what lies within,
For life’s true song is what we most resist.

We fill the void with echoes of our fears,
And call it progress as the wildness dies;
The meaning sought eludes our hurried years—
A silent truth that waits beyond our lies.