Moon Seed

In the concrete of the city sleeps a moon seed,
hidden in a crack between dust and neon.
it savors silence, breathes cold and waits,
for the first word that will make it shine.
When someone listens, it truly awakens
a silver root digs through the asphalt, slow but sure.
the street holds its breath, the noise fades away,
and the listening voice becomes water for growth.
The cracks open windows of moon on the stairs,
a silver shoot sprouts among the gates.
who listens is the light, the city becomes soil
every whisper feeds roots and subterranean rhythms.
The seed grows; a leaf rises among the palaces,
the sidewalks become meadow, the towers bow down.
the concrete yields to a garden of shared stories,
and the night sings that who listens makes the world sprout.