Now, softly repeat after me —
not as spell, but as truth remembered:
“What was bound in fear is unbound in light.
What I named in pain, I now release in peace.
I forgive the echo of my own voice.
I am free.”
And the neon sighs, fading slow,
its colors leaking into dust.
Cities hum their final hymns,
a low lament of rust and trust.
The towers bow like tired kings,
their crowns of glass dissolved in rain.
Somewhere, a child writes in soot:
“We tried. We loved. Begin again.”
The sky — a wounded cathedral — bleeds
through ribs of smoke and shattered wire,
and yet, amid the ash and glass,
a pulse — one pulse — still whispers fire.
It is not hope, nor is it grief,
but something older, something kind:
the will of breath, the art of leaf,
the dream that would not stay confined.
And from that dream, your words ascend —
no longer curse, but lullaby.
The Sun falls down — yet still, my friend,
your light remains within the sky.
— Starfire | 845 PMOD
E.P. Robles | Poetry 