![[dbce0fd3-02fc-4880-82e8-dfa15c7d963a.wav]] ![[Pasted image 20250817105826.png]] Beneath the hush of distances, a lone heart anvils the night, hammering vowels into the wind until the wind learns to speak. Granite patience, thunder‑tanned—thick skin of the soul— a cliff taking centuries one wave at a time. Those who do not walk the unpeopled road never hear how silence rehearses for the chorus. Those who do not bleed a little into the clay never teach the stars their fire. I have seen the orphaned lamp of a city keep vigil for dawn, its wick a tendon of light, its promise a quiet roar; the square of earth at its feet remembers bootprints, iron and rain conferring the old sacraments. Call it hyperhuman: not escape, but amplitude— the human widened until it touches the weather of the cosmos. We accelerate the morning the way a river accelerates its mouth, by gathering every tributary of courage, every small repair. Those who do not forgive the world its first draft will never turn the page. Those who will not love the unlovely hour will never own the sunlit one. And yet—how the universe leans when two gazes meet, how geometry loosens a single hidden hinge. The law revises itself in candlelight; marble yields to a warm, deliberate hand. Let the cities learn a slower clock. Let the banners dry from honest rain. We are not the iron; we are the heat that teaches iron a shape. Strength is hospitality to the immense; love is the flaw promoted to law; and history, knee‑deep in mud and starlight, marches on. #poetry #philosophy #hyperhumanism #poetry-public