The cliff was cracked. The sea below
sang louder than the wind could blow.
And still—the voices found their flame,
a hundred mouths, and none the same.
No drums. No flutes. No strings or lyre—
just breath turned ash, then ash to fire.
They circled tight, then broke apart—
a storm of rhythm fed by heart.
The temple watched with patient eyes,
its stones unmoved by modern cries.
The gods don’t need our cameras here.
They speak in sweat, and smoke, and fear.
The sun went down. The fire rose.
The dancer stepped on burning toes.
And in that hush, that flickered gleam—
I saw the shape of some old dream.
Not nightmare. Not quite prayer.
Just something else that once was there.
And left its shadow, warm and true,
in every spark that passed me through.