Pandemic
Days roll into days,
the thread of time unraveling,
and hazy grey pervades all things—
the sky, the ground, and the hearts of those who once carried laughter like lanterns.
Sanctified and desecrated,
the sacred and the profane blur
beneath this veil of grief.
Even sunlight dims,
its brilliance muted,
as if afraid to intrude
upon the solemnity of despair.
Nothing is immune.
Not the towering pines once swaying freely
nor the rivers that carried hope
in their timeless currents.
The world breathes out sorrow,
a fog from deep within,
wrapping every corner in a quiet ache.
Yet, beneath this blanket of sadness,
something stirs—a pulse, faint but steady,
a whisper that reminds us
that even in the haze,
the earth turns.