And then no wind.

And then no trees.

No weeping sky, no boiling seas.

No record kept.

No soul to tease.

No justice.

No regret.

Only stillness, smooth and vast.

No future dreams. No echoes past.

A peace so sharp, so clean, so fast—

the world forgets it wept.

And this is how the ruins came—

not violence nor a one to blame—

and yet it happened all the same,

and nothing’s turning back.

For what is there to witness death,

the loss of life, the loss of breath,

if nothing’s gained or nothing’s left—

no sight, no single name?

In what’s left of what was aught,

to be the land, the sands of naught,

is nothing but a crater shot,

fraught with peace that war had bought.

No bones. No flesh. No pain.

What is cost was what was took—

all was needed. See it. Look.

Was words that made it what it is—

and what it never will.

Breathing not and living less,

winning not what can’t be guessed,

living with the doom.