There is a place where the old winds moan,
where the earth splits wide and weeps alone,
where the roots drink deep from a bitter well
and the trees grow tall with a tale to tell —
a tale of fire, of ash, of stone,
of everything sacred left to bone.
The hollow breathes.
It heaves and sighs.
It swallows whole the asking skies.
The burning sun does not warm here —
it brands —
it scorches prayers from trembling hands,
it chars the psalms before they rise,
turns hope to smoke behind your eyes.
No mercy in that golden glare,
just ancient heat that does not care.
And the wine —
oh, the wine of the rended seam —
it pours from wounds that split and scream,
it flows from cracks in the belly of things,
from the broken backs of forgotten kings,
it stains the lips of the ones who dared
to love what the hollow left impaired.
Drink deep.
It burns like truth.
It tastes of loss, of wasted youth,
of every door that shut too fast,
of every light too bright to last.
The hollow is not empty, friend —
it's full —
full of everything that couldn't mend,
full of voices with nowhere to send
their grief, their fury, their desperate call
echoing off its cavernous wall.
So press your chest against the ground.
Let the hollow make you its sound.
Let it rattle your ribs like a cathedral bell,
let it pull from your throat what you dare not tell —
For the hollow does not take the weak.
It calls the ones with the bones to seek
the burning, the bleeding, the beautiful scar —
the ones who know what the broken are.