Broken Author

We are nothing but dust,
gathered in the hollows of forgotten streets,
carried by the sighs of the wind,
scattered like prayers whispered too late.

We are the skin of old stones,
the ash that lingers in the corner of the hearth,
the scent of burnt bread in an empty kitchen,
the echo of footsteps in a house no longer home.

The sun does not remember our names.
It passes over us with the indifference of centuries,
lighting our faces for a breath of time,
then moving on to the shoulders of mountains.

Our hands hold nothing,
even when filled with coins,
with flowers,
with the bodies of those we claim to love.
Everything falls through the spaces between our fingers
as if we were already fading.

We speak of purpose
as if the stars took notes,
as if the oceans held records
of every kiss,
every cruelty,
every silent hour beside a dying parent.

But the truth sleeps in the soil.
It knows we return barefoot and broken,
with no flag, no triumph,
just the hum of the worms that carry us
back into the arms of the earth.

What are we,
if not the dust that danced
in the rooms of our mothers?
The dust on the jacket
of the man who left and never came back?
The dust that covers the boots of the soldier,
the eyelash of the bride,
the spine of the book no one will ever finish?

We are the dust that believed it was fire,
the dust that kissed,
that begged,
that broke.
We are the dust that built cities,
then tore them down in rage.
We are dust pretending to be gods,
wearing suits,
writing laws,
burning forests for light.

Yet,
when we fall silent,
when the last lie leaves our lungs,
when the bones lose their voice,
there will be only the dust,
waiting without hurry,
without fear,
to take us back,
grain by grain,
into the infinite hush
from which we came.