He was the mountain, now a shard of stone,
A river carved to dust, by winds alone.
The sky itself had wept, its tears of fire,
And in the storm, his spirit was unspun, entire.

He was the whisper lost in endless night,
A flicker fading, swallowed by the fight.
His breath, a shadow, broken in the dark,
His body shattered, trembling with a mark.

The earth had swallowed him, the heavens turned,
The ashes told him, “Let your heart be burned.”
But in the wreckage, where the silence bled,
A pulse began to stir, the hunger fed.

His bones, like splinters torn from brittle flame,
Shuddered as thunder spoke his battered name.
From dust, from ruin, from the blackest well,
He clawed his way up, from where shadows...