The volcano hums its ancient song, a melody written in the tongues of fire
and echoes of whispered memories.
Silent yet explosive, benign yet furious,
it speaks to the heart in rhythmic pulses.
Beneath layers of ash, lie forgotten footsteps,
carving stories into the earth with every vibrant stride.
Each echo a dance between joy and melancholy,
celebrated in the shadows of a long-lost summer.
In the aftermath of each eruption,
a canvas untouched by time waits to be painted anew.
With the silent brushstrokes of the wind
narrating tales of lovers and wanderers.
There is a warmth in volcanic ash—comforting,
like an embrace from a warmth lost to the past.
We stand at the edge, overlooking the abyss,
where silent echoes of yesterdays insatiably call.