The world was born from breaking silence,
Stone from scream and light from scar,
Every dawn was paid in ashes,
Every star a wound that burned.
Hands that shaped the first horizon
Bled upon the edge of time,
For nothing living enters being
Without something left behind.
The anvil cracked to birth the blade,
The seed must split to rise,
What we call ruin wears the face
Of change we dare not name.
Creation and destruction
Are the same unbroken flame,
One breath forging, one breath ending,
Both answering the same name.
What the fire takes, it gives again,
What the night destroys, it learns—
Every birth is something dying,
Every ending something burns.
Cities rise from fallen forests,
Crowns are cast from shattered thrones,
Songs are written from the silence
Left where broken voices moan.
Even gods are shaped by loss now,
Even stars must someday fall,
For the hand that builds the heavens
Is the hand that cracks the wall.
Do not mourn the falling tower,
Do not curse the dying flame,
For the dust remembers purpose
Long after form and name.
The river cuts the land in two
So valleys may be born,
And the world remakes itself each time
It learns what it must mourn.
Creation and destruction
Turn together, wheel and scar,
Like the forge and like the hammer,
Like the wound that makes us more.
Fear the ones who claim to build
Without breaking what has been—
They deny the law of becoming
And the truth the fire sings.
So let the old world crack and thunder,
Let the ashes touch the dawn—
For nothing ends without beginning,
And nothing born lives on unchanged.
