Whispers Beneath the Soil

They sleep in the dark soil like forgotten promises of rain,
small fists of silence folded against the weight of pain.
No trumpet calls their name, no herald sings their worth,
yet roots compose symphonies deep beneath the earth.

A cracked ground wears thirst like a crown of despair,
but a stubborn green syllable still scribbles itself there.
Hope wears dirt-stained fingers and weathered palms,
breaking stone's arrogance with soft, steady psalms.

The wind mocks with drought, the fire sneers with flame,
the sun glares its fury, yet the seeds endure the same.
For each kernel carries a manuscript none can erase,
blueprints of forests, bread, and humanity's grace.

Children of the soil, heirs of the hidden light,
gamblers with shadows who climb out of night.
Every leaf unfurls like a psalm chanted twice,
every stem beats tomorrow's drum at a price.

Water them not only with rivers, but with justice and care,
shield them from the greed that poisons the air.
For seeds do not perish; they bide and they wait,
silent architects sketching the outlines of fate.

When the rains finally come, and come they will,
green choirs will rise where deserts stand still.
Roots will grip histories, stems will rewrite scars,
fields will burn brighter than forgotten stars.

And when they bloom, as bloom they must,
they will split the concrete, betray the dust.
They will cradle in their green-lit hands
a tomorrow no famine or fire understands.

So guard them like treasure, plant them with song,
for seeds of tomorrow will not sleep long.
They are the poems the earth rehearses in clay,
the future dressed in green, refusing decay.