ㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤ ” ㅤ AT THE HOUR WHEN LIGHT
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ DIES, SOMETHING RISES,
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ NOT REBORN, BUT REMADE
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ IN IT’S OWN ASHES. „
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ🔗 🔗 🔗

ㅤ ㅤ Ashes drift where gravity forgets its
ㅤ ㅤ name, silver motes folding through
ㅤ ㅤ the air as though the sky itself
ㅤ ㅤ exhales. The light does not wait for
ㅤ ㅤ them; it blooms slowly, as if
ㅤ ㅤ conjured from the memory of fire,
ㅤ ㅤ as if every shard of ruin has always
ㅤ ㅤ carried its own glow. #AshesToLight

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ(THERE IS NO ASCENT
ㅤ ㅤ OR, 🔗' .. DESCENT)

only the hush of becoming, a passage from one form to another. ASHES TO LIGHT, the world remade in the breath between destruction and wonder, time loosens its grip.

ㅤ