Life is solid, made of earth and stone,
of roots that sink deep into the silence of the soil.
Each step, an echo in the field of time,
each breath, a reminder that we are (in)finite.
There is strength in the winds we cannot see
and in the falling leaves that fear not the winter.
Love is not fleeting, but like the rock,
firm, built in the fissures of being.
And when the sky closes,
when the night folds over the day,
it is still the earth that embraces us
with the memory of what endures.
What are we, if not fragments of this continuity?
There is no fragility in the being that knows its root,
there is no fear in the soul that touches the earth,
for we are all, at essence, earth, and from earth, all things are born.