The temples stand in candle-glow,
Prayers rise but answers don’t,
We beg the sky to speak aloud,
Yet heaven keeps its throat.
We call the quiet emptiness,
A throne abandoned, bare,
But silence is not absence—
It is weight, and it is care.
The divine is silent, not asleep,
Not turned away in shame,
It listens where our voices break,
It hears what we can’t name.
In the hush between our cries,
In the breath before we fall,
The gods do not shout their will—
They hear us through it all.
If every wound were answered fast,
If every wish came true,
We’d never learn which truths we meant,
Or which gods were just us.
A voice that rules is easy found,
A voice that listens, rare,
The sacred waits in stillness
So we choose what we declare.
The divine is silent because it hears
The lies we tell ourselves,
The prayers we whisper out of fear,
The ones we never sell.
So speak as though the quiet stays,
And listens to your name—
For silence is the holiest form
Of faith that will not chain.
