The rivers bend where they never did before,
Mountains hum with a stranger tone,
The old maps fail, the stars ignore
The names we carved into stone.
We say the world is tearing apart—
But it’s only outrunning our hearts.
We learned the songs too slow, too late,
The earth won’t wait for us to translate.
The world’s not dying, it’s shifting its skin,
Learning new ways to breathe again.
We cling to ashes, call it the end,
While tomorrow’s already learning to bend.
It’s not cruel, it’s not unkind—
It’s just moving faster than its children’s minds.
Forests speak in altered tongues,
Seas remember shapes we’ve lost,
The young feel wrong where they were born,
Paying change’s unseen cost.
We curse the tide, we fear the flame,
But nothing here has stayed the same.
Every age thinks it stands last,
Till time reminds us—we’re the past.
The world’s not dying, it’s shifting its skin,
Learning new ways to breathe again.
We cling to ashes, call it the end,
While tomorrow’s already learning to bend.
It’s not cruel, it’s not unkind—
It’s just moving faster than its children’s minds.
The world was old before our names,
It will be young when ours are dust.
The fault is not in change or flame—
But in what we refuse to trust.
So don’t mourn the sky for changing hue,
Or curse the ground for something new.
If we break, it’s not decay—
We simply couldn’t change our way.
The world survives, remade, alive—
We just forgot how to arrive.
