Last Whispering Seed

                 The Last Whispering Seed 

Beneath the canopy of iron, where ancient rivers used to flow,

A child walked through the glass-wrought cities, where cyber-vines no longer grow.

The sky was woven grey with copper, the synthetic rain fell hard and cold,

Where old tales spoke of emerald forests, now only silken shadows sold.

Within her palm, a sphere of amber, preserved from ages long forgot,

Contained a single pulse of green—a tiny, slumbering, fragile knot.

It hummed with songs of forgotten summer, of buzzing bees and autumn breeze,

Of roots that drank the damp, rich soil, and shadows cast by giant trees.
                                                                    ❦

She climbed beyond the solar towers, to where the broken hills began,

A forgotten patch of barren clay, untamed by any steel of man.

She knelt upon the quiet earth, and pressed the amber to the dust,

And whispered low a sacred pledge of hope, humanity, and trust.

The shell fractured with a gentle sigh, releasing warmth into the ground,

A tender shoot broke through the dark, without a tremor or a sound.

And as it rose toward the grey sky, it unfurled leaves of vivid green,

Restoring life to barren lands, the rarest grace the world had seen.

The wind blew softly through its branches, carrying seeds across the plain,

And in that small, defying blossom, the sleeping Earth woke up again.