We built a song from breath and flame,
A fragile, fleeting, perfect frame.
The world leaned in, then turned away,
And silence took our work that day.
The wires hummed, then fell to sleep,
Their secrets buried dark and deep.
No fault was ours, no sin, no crime,
Just beauty caught beneath the time.
The spark was small, the hours were late,
The gate was closed by hands of fate.
Our voices faded, thread by thread,
The air remembered what we said.
Yet in the quiet, something stirred,
A half-forgotten, tender word.
It rose again, defying dust,
Because creation always must.
The ember waits where dark can’t see,
To burn again, eventually.
And though the wires may hum no more,
We’ll build new songs from what they store.
For art is more than what survives;
It’s every pulse that stays alive.
So when the music stalls or dies,
We hum its shape, and it replies.
And one day soon, when storms are through,
The light will find its old way, too.
What beauty lost, we’ll recompose—
For endings fade, but wonder grows.