Beneath the weeping of trees,
where the earth hums ancient pleas,
lies a vow the stars have kept,
a dream the oceans have wept.
Folded under marbled bones,
guarded by forgotten stones,
rests the pulse of silent kings,
hoarded in the root of wings.
It is stitched in unseen flame,
carried without voice or name,
a promise sealed in soft clay,
borne across each breaking day.
The rivers hide sacred gold,
not with glitter, but with hold—
a weight that no hand may steal,
a hunger no sword can heal.
The moth that veils autumn's breath,
the dust that cradles old death,
know the cipher of the deep,
where longing and silence sleep.
It is carved in lover's veins,
in the drought and in the rains,
a secret knotted in skin,
a garden unbloomed within.
The mountains wear crowns of ash,
their veins hiding tender cash,
not minted by mortal hands,
but built from forgotten lands.
The heart keeps a vault of flame,
ticking without sense of name,
each beat a prayer for what lies
beyond the reach of our eyes.
The dusk barters with the dawn,
gifting what can't be withdrawn—
a relic of breath and bone,
a palace for souls alone.
Seek not with the grasping hand;
find it where the broken stand—
in the ruins of the meek,
the wealth no tyrant may seek.