We laid it down in quiet ground,
Spoke vows of “nevermore.”
Covered truth with stone and song,
Locked memory behind a door.
But earth remembers every name,
And ash still holds the heat—
What’s buried deep is not at rest,
It listens through our feet.
What we bury still breathes,
Still waits beneath the seams,
Still whispers through the roots of time
And bleeds into our dreams.
You can seal it with silence,
You can starve it of light—
But what we bury still breathes
In the night.
We called it mercy, called it peace,
Said “let the past lie still.”
But bones don’t forget the shape of pain,
And wounds remember will.
The soil grows warm with broken oaths,
The dark learns how to speak—
The deeper that you press it down,
The stronger that it seeks.
What we bury still breathes,
Through iron, flame, and creed.
Every lie becomes a lung,
Every fear a seed.
You can crown the forgetting,
Build thrones out of release—
But what we bury still breathes,
And remembers us.
Not all graves are made for the dead,
Some are built for shame.
And someday the ground will open wide
And call us by our name.
What we bury still breathes,
Not to haunt, but to be seen.
The past is not a phantom—
It is living in between.
If you feel the earth is stirring
When you swear you’re finally free,
It’s because what we buried
Is still… breathing.
