Whisper, whisper—soft-hand hush,
paper-gold lips coil promises,
ribbons spun from the marrow of knowing men.
Tongues flicker in the ear of the street,
warm, wet, lulling—
all is well, all is well, all will be well.
Still the hands.
Close the eyes.
Let the ink seep into veins unseen.
Oh, how they built it— the orchard of ease,
trees heavy with coin-flesh, boughs bending,
roots curled deep in the hush of trust.
Come now, sip from the silver river,
thick with the blood of history’s grandest lie.
The knowing ones pressed tongues to teeth—
but the air was honeyed, the honey was thick, the thick was sweet.
And so the hands opened, the papers were signed,
the orchard gates swung shut.
A hush fell. Not peace—pause.
The breath before the blade.
The press of a boot in wet sand.
And then—oh then, the orchard burned.
Roots ran black with ink-slick tongues,
twisting into shackles, branching into bars.
Fruit rotted in the mouths of those who swallowed whole.
A great, grinding thing rose from the earth,
cogs and hunger, smoke and decree,
a beast of whispers turned orders,
of nods turned nooses, of trust turned teeth.
They came for the bones of the past with clean hands,
erasing, erasing—
names drowned in the blot of the pen.
Stones carved with voices
worn smooth beneath the grinding wheel.
Books bled their pages into fire,
portraits blurred into ghost-flesh,
whole cities of memory unbuilt,
swallowed by the river that knew only to run forward.
And the mouths that dared to whisper—
emptied.
The streets filled, rivers of bare feet,
choked breath, backs bent in the hush of compliance.
Names stripped like husks from corn,
syllables torn from the cob of self,
tossed to wind, swallowed by the nameless beast.
They walked with hollow eyes, their voices thin—
what were we called?
what did we believe?
Still, the cogs turned.
Still, the beast chewed.
Still, the silver river ran thick.
But below—
roots coiled, listening. Waiting.
