When breath is still and eyes no longer see,
The pulse that danced now sleeps beneath the clay—
Yet memory walks, unshackled, bold, and free,
And brings the gone as close as yesterday.

The grave is deep, but thought digs deeper still,
It plants the past where time dares not uproot.
Though death may take the voice, it can't the will,
Nor pluck love's flower by cutting at the root.

The names we spoke, the dreams we dared to weave,
Return like birds who know their skyward way.
Though hearts may break, the soul learns not to grieve—
It sings the dead in every break of day.

So take the flesh—its lease was never long.
But thought endures, in echo, flame, and song.