Beneath the soil, in a tomb of roots,

I slumbered in shadows, bound by boots

Of earth and stone, of time and sleep,

A secret kept in the cavern deep.

But then, a tremor—a whisper, a thread,

A call through the darkness, a voice long dead.

The stars leaned close, their lanterns alight,

And pierced the veil of my endless night.

The sun, like a golden smith, struck fire,

A forge for my heart, a furnace of desire.

Each ray a hammer, each beam a song,

Breaking the chains that held me wrong.

I felt the soil yield, the grip of the grave,

As a sprout in the storm learns to be brave.

My roots stretched wide, my leaves took flight,

A fledgling caught in the arms of light.

The sky cracked open, a sapphire seam,

And poured its wine on the lips of my dream.

I drank it whole, that wild, sweet rain,

Washing my spirit of fear and pain.

Now I stand, a tree, a flame, a tide,

A river unbound, a truth untied.

Awake, alive, no longer still—

The world bends gently to my will.

For in the quiet, where death had reigned,

I learned the art of life regained.