Cradled in the ancient murmur,
we are archives of fire:
helixes folded as choirs,
each base a note,
each spiral a score
composed in the silence.
Listen closely—
your skin sings hydrogen,
your marrow chants iron,
your lungs rehearse
the vocabulary of stars.
What we call solitude
is crowded with voices:
the background whisper
of a universe still cooling,
and the chorus inside us
that refuses to forget
how to sing.
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