Testimony of Light.

I rise, as I always have.
Below me, your oceans twitch in  fever dreams,
your forests cough black smoke into the lungs of morning.
I remember when they sang.

You used to bloom for me… stretching like children
toward my warmth. Now, you wilt with open mouths,
no water left to drink. I watched you build and call it progress;
watched you dig into your skin for oil, for fire,
for gods made of glass and greed.

And still, I kept shining, even as you forgot how to look up
without squinting.

You lie to yourselves with artificially manufactured

smiles and solar panels, while your ice sobs
into the sea. Your bones are cracking in the heat.
You were never meant to burn this long.

The animals are leaving quietly one by one, without goodbyes.
Even the crows have grown tired of circling.

And still, I rise. Still, I pour my light onto your blistered skin,
like a mother trying to warm a corpse.

You pray for rain, for mercy, for a miracle.
But the clouds are gone, and I am all that’s left.

Not savior. Not punishment. Just witness. Just heat.

And when the final tree falls, when the last lung exhales, I will shine on your grave

as gently as I did your cradle.