Who writes the names upon the stone

when stone itself is overthrown?

Who marks the lost when none have known

the breath they had to give?

What book is left when pages burn?

What lessons taught if none return?

And in the dust, the dead still yearn—

but there’s no one left to live.

No temple stands to house a prayer,

no cloistered monk, no open air.

No god remains. No soul to care—

just windless, weightless grey.

And if a whisper dared to speak,

its voice would falter—old and weak.

For silence here is far too bleak,

and louder than decay.

Once a tower, once a stream,

once a child with a dream,

once a bell that dared to ring—

now none remain to know.

Even time now dares not pass—

no ticking seconds, no turned glass.

No mold to grow, no blade, no grass—

just nothing left to know.

And I, the end, the closing gate,

the final turn, the silent fate—

I do not grieve. I do not hate.

I simply play my part.

It was your hands that shaped the pyre,

your voices sparked the crimson fire.

Your hunger pulled the ending higher—

and broke the world apart.

Would you call me cruel for this?

For peace too sharp, too strange to miss?

For ending all—not hit or hiss—

but emptiness complete?

No trench to fill, no land to till,

no blade to forge, no wish, no will.

No ghost to haunt the battlefield—

no heartbeat, no defeat.

I am not vengeance. Not regret.

Not forged in anger. No, and yet—

I carry what you can’t forget:

your hunger dressed in gold.

You carved the crown with sharpened pride.

With every death. With every lie.

You let the fire deeper slide—

and called it strong and bold.

Where were you when ashes stirred?

When soil cracked and songs deferred?

When every cry was just a word

that no one dared to hear?

You built me not in labs or fire,

but under towers stacked up higher.

In treaties forged by those who hire

the ones who bleed and fear.

So now, a world beneath my hand—

not crushed, but gone like falling sand.

No castles, chains, no promised land.

No martyr, saint, or sin.

No gates to shut, no lines to cross,

no trophies hung, no tally lost.

Just nothing left. No flame. No frost.

No loss—for none had been.

A whisper once may float above—

a ghost of hate, a ghost of love.

But time forgets and quickly shoves

all echoes to the deep.