The Blind Pulse Beneath the Cement

Under the gray crust, hard and indifferent,
where the quick step extinguishes every whisper,
another world weaves its slow pattern,
a blind pulse, an eternal murmur.
It sees no light, hears no wind,
but follows the mute call of the earth.

Thin, patient, the root twists itself,
exploring fissures, breaking layers of oblivion.
It has no voice to scream, no strength
to tear down the wall, but only a slow weave
of fiber and obstinacy, a silent will
that erodes the silence, the hard seal.

And one day, perhaps, a vein arises,
cracking the rock, breaking the appearance.
It is the subdued song of one who ceaselessly strives,
life discovering a new presence.
Not a sudden leap, but an ancient rhythm,
the heart of the soil that rises through the attic.