The world is burning,
Matter dissolves —
Forms collapse —
the temples, the empires,
the names etched on marble.
Even the body,
faithful companion,
bends to the law of fading.
But what is form
but the shadow of becoming?
And yet,
essence remains —
not the monuments,
not the crowns,
but the invisible pulse
that binds us.
It survives the fire,
travels through the ashes,
and whispers:
“You are more than what perishes.
You are the song,
not the instrument.”
The cities fall into sparks,
the towers bow into ash,
and still the stars
scatter their infinite silence.
What is consumed here
is reborn elsewhere,
for the cosmos has no waste,
only transformation.
We are flames too,
brief torches of awareness
wandering through the night of time.
Our suffering is not the end,
but the beginning of vision.
Through the smoke of endings
we glimpse the open horizon—
where fire becomes light,
and light becomes love.
The world in flames
is not the world perishing,
but the world remembering
its eternal source.
