The wind speaks low in syllables of grief,
And lightning splits the marrow of the sky.
I heard the storm confess beyond belief
That even gods grow weary, and must cry.

The fire knows no mercy, knows no name,
It dances on the bones of what we built.
We prayed to it; it answered us in flame,
A god that feasts on innocence and guilt.

The water holds the memory of rain,
Of every flood that never knelt to atone—
It carries what the living can’t contain:
The salt of all the tears we’ve ever known.

The earth is patient with its buried dead,
It takes the root, the coffin, and the seed,
And does not speak of what it will be fed—
It only opens, with a quiet need.

And I am made of all these ancient aches:
The breath, the burning, drowning, and decay.
I am the storm before the body breaks—
I come to collect what life could not repay.