ALIVE

Beneath that velvet cosmic sweep,
Where galaxies in silence sleep,
A wanderer lifts his steady gaze
And feels the pulse of ancient days.

The constellations shift and sigh,
Old stories drifting through the sky,
And every shimmer, every gleam,
Becomes a doorway into dream.

The earth beneath his feet is wise;
It hums the truth the dark denies:
That even dust, when touched by time,
Can rise in arcs of the sublime.

Mountains murmur from their bones
Of kingdoms lost and nameless thrones,
Of those who dared to stand alone
And those who found their way back home.

And in that vast, unfolding play
Where night gives shape to newborn day,
The wanderer learns the quiet art
Of hearing starlight with the heart.

For every life — a fragile spark —
Is born to navigate the dark,
To carve a path through cosmic night
And leave behind a trail of light.

And so we walk, and so we write,
Our stories stitched from shadowed light,
Each line a step, each breath a sign
That we are here, alive, divine.