There is no birth.
Only light changing tense.

The first spark
remembers the last ember.

They speak each other’s name
across the plane.

Darkness is not absence,
but the resting of illumination.

What we call death
is light arriving
at its own beginning.

The pillars fall,
and rise again,
in every eye that looks.

Every ruin shines
with the same patience
that once built stars.

There is no loss.
Only return,
folded through time’s delay.