Victor Adolfo

The waters once whispered ancient songs, wove mirrors of skies and reasons long, but hands without memory came one day, and in their cradle left their decay. Empty bottles, foam’s ghostly gleam, float down the rivers, lost in a dream. Dancing bags and shards of regret break the wounded water’s breath. A fish that once leaped along the shore now sees a nightmare forevermore: plastics, nets, and soulless cans shatter its dance, silence its plans. The wind collects the remnants of pain, carries them forward like sorrowful rain. The sea, grown weary, hides in its chest mountains of ruin, cries unexpressed. Who will offer a true, healing hand? Who will cleanse the bleeding land? The earth is pleading, the rivers implore: let us become the spring once more!