When The World Stops Asking

Ancient sky
over an ancient road—
we answer the call
Pan plucks in the dark,
a low, feral note
deep in the bones,
not cruel,
but cleansing.

Not evil—
but old.
A time that moves
like a deep river,
slow, wide,
and knowing.

Leaves speak in hushes,
wind sings in blood languages.
The stars burn overhead—
wild-eyed, watching,
drawing maps for those
who dare remember.

We paddle toward the hush
most men run from—
because in it,
the silence looks back.

And when it does,
something stirs.

It stirs the heart,
it stirs the loins,
it stirs the soul—
and you know,
with a knowing deeper than thought:
all is connected.

The ache.
The hunger.
The dark.
The fire.
The water.
The breath.

We go not to escape—
but to return.
To be seen
by the trees that never forgot.
To be named
by something older than language.

And there—
beneath the ancient sky,
on the ancient road—
we become
what we always were:
wild,
wounded,
awake.