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Where the tide carves hollows in the stone,
A murmur hums beneath the foam,
Each wave a thief of what was sown,
Yet leaves a gleam where light has grown.

We are the thread, the loom, the fray,
Woven through the dusk and day,
A fragile chord in silence strung,
Between the shadows, songs are sung.

The linden sheds its amber shroud,
A golden ruin on the ground,
Its boughs still reach, though winds disown,
A quiet fire in roots unknown.

Beneath the ash, a pulse remains,
A map of rivers, etched in veins,
Through every fracture, light seeps through,
The wound itself becomes the view.

We are the thread, the loom, the fray,
Woven through the dusk and day,
A fragile chord in silence strung,
Between the shadows, songs are sung.