Podkke (poksk)

The silence was broken only by a raven’s call, sharp and certain. I looked up to find it perched on a bare branch, unbothered by the cold. I watched it for a while and wondered what it knows about being alone without being lonely. That’s a wisdom I’d like to learn.

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From the charred knuckles of volcano crawls steam, throat knotted in smoke. Ash brands my tongue bright with vowels gutted of hope, and I swallow their scorch whole, ribs singing psalms cracked open by hunger dressed in fire’s thin skin.

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The tide swaggered in, hips slamming sand, foam frothing like spit. And I laughed, thinking: desire isn’t tender—it’s tidal, it chews, it claws, it drenches every shore it loves until even stones forget their shape.

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Moonlight plucked the forest in silver pizzicato, strings humming hymns in every trembling leaf. I lay under its music and thought: maybe divinity isn’t doctrine—it’s resonance, a pulse that vibrates bone until silence sounds symphonic, until our marrow mistakes hush for harpsong.

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