No Trace Left

 

There is nothing left to mark my passing,

No name to carve upon enduring stone,

No color left to stain the passing wind,

No canvas waiting for me to return.

The dreamer in me left without farewell,

And wandered into forests of deep thought,

Where silence grows like ancient, shaded trees

And slept beneath the fallen, forgotten leaves.

I searched for him through memories and nights,

Through dark, quiet corridors of my mind,

But only hollow echoes answered back.

Time, the quiet poet, wrote his verse on me .

The heartbeat of the earth grew soft and slow,

As mountains kept what cities soon forgot,

And rivers carried away empires' reflections

As though their grand existence never was.

The sky remained unchanged above our heads,

Watching generations arrive in hope,

Living with certainty in all they built,

Only to depart without explanation.

There is no ink to gather new colors,

My trembling fingers can no longer guide

A gentle brush to believe in beauty,

Yet the blank canvas does not accuse.

It simply waits, knowing every artist

Must surrender to the quiet beyond.

No unseen visions visit me today;

The constellations scatter into stars.

The songs that once filled up empty rooms

Have dissolved into stillness between breaths.

What remains is neither dream nor memory,

Only blood returning to the soil.

It paints a quiet portrait in the earth

That no museum will preserve or hold.

Soon the grass will rise through forgotten steps,

And flowers bloom where monuments collapse.

Birds will compose their morning hymns above

The ruins of our human ambition.

The forests will reclaim our borrowed words,

The wind will erase names with patience.

Perhaps the earth has always truly known

That it belongs to no single master.

We measured continents and claimed the seas,

As though naming meant that we possessed.

Yet the cold dust recognizes no kings,

The rain falls the same on palace and home,

The stars never pause to hold our victories,

And time keeps no museum for our pride.

It preserves no trophies, borders, or praise;

Its only true masterpiece is change.

Now it quietly prepares its final show-

The last portrait of all humankind.

No audience gathers, no applause is heard,

Only the patient earth receives us all.

Awaken now, not to conquer, but know;

Be still, for silence speaks the deepest truth.

We came, we dreamed, we built, we loved, we hurt,

And then we vanished like a passing breeze.

And time, without anger, pity, or thought,

Walked on-leaving no trace behind.