WATER:

“I remember. I carry the weight of memory, the drowned secrets, the soft pull of grief.

I soothe, I erode, I rise without warning.

You call me gentle, then curse me storm.

I have kissed every shore—

what have you done, Fire, but burn what I’ve cradled?”

FIRE:

“I am fury, sure. But also warmth.

I birth the stars and cook your bread.

You fear me only because you cannot cage me.

Water—you smother.

At least I scream my destruction. At least I shine.”

EARTH:

“Children, hush. I was here before you sparked or surged.

I hold roots and bones alike.

I do not need praise—I endure.

You dance above me, fickle and loud.

But I am the stillness that watches.

I am the weight of truth.”

AIR:

“And I—what of me? Forgotten wind, unseen grace.

You only miss me when I vanish.

Yet I am the first breath and the last sigh.

I feed the fire, carve the stone, stir the sea.

I have no shape, yet I touch all.

I laugh while you quarrel—

because none of you can move without me.”