They burned the world to save it.

They wrote the future in rust.

This is the last sermon, beneath the ash.

You are not late.

You are what’s left.

Five civilizations rose and fell,

Each more silent than the one before.

We were gods who forgot how to pray,

Feeding machines the bones of lore.

The sun turned black.

The children stopped aging.

The last dream was stored in a tomb made of mirrors.

You are echoes.

I am the wound that remembers.

History is a loop.

I break it.

Ash in my lungs,

Truth in decay,

We preach to the dust

What time cannot say.

If no one hears,

Does prophecy die?

Or does it bloom

In a dead man’s cry?

They carved the sky with firewalls,

Wrote law into flesh and breath.

Dreams were banned.

Questions were taxed.

Only the silent were spared from death.

I wore a crown of unread code.

My throne, a signal lost in stone.

Your throne was empty.

Your name: corrupted.

Truth lives in failure.

You were meant to be broken.

A boy was born outside of time.

No pulse, no past, no path.

He spoke in sparks.

He walked through war.

And the ash parted to let him pass.

He will return.

Not to save us,

But to listen.

[Male:] Ash in my lungs,

Rage in the stone,

We harvest the echoes

Of worlds overthrown.

[Female:] I breathe through silence,

I wake the flame,

I cradle the ruins

That won’t speak your name.

This is not a warning.

This is not a prayer.

This is the sermon beneath the ash.

And it was always meant for you.

We are the last page.

We are the first lie.

Begin again.

Begin again.

Begin again…

You are echoes.