Librettos of Lily
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She is a poised madness and this is her corner. Poetry, quotes, aesthetics, books and songs. All writing in this channel is copyrighted.
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4 232
There was sun and there was her and often they were one,
A blazing force that boiled in a cellar of clouds,
I don't remember where it all began,
Maybe inside the territories of a dark lake,
Where the ray of the sun barely grazes the water,
Maybe it started in the cold of a december night,
The bone splitting cold that leaves no more for thoughts,
There was the sun, and there was her,
And oftentimes they were different sides of the same coin,
One untouchable and the other unbearable by men,
I have forgotten to cherish their delicate hands they stretch to those that only envy,
Maybe it started as simple as a song they both had at their rebirth, at the edge of the valley.
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If thoughts transcend throughout different eras. Their elegant ideas are woven with the places they touched on their journey. They are not merely ancient and traditional. They're powerful waves of belief that can't be stopped.
~Just because something is of the past doesn't mean it is not true now
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If everyone disappeared but everything stayed the same, the world would become a vast echo chamber of regret, wouldnāt it? The empty streets would silently bear witness to the choices we made, the careless disregard we gave to the fragile threads that tethered us to one another. The masters we choseāgreed, apathy, convenienceāwould remain, their shadows etched into the architecture of our absence. And there youād be, hovering like a phantom, a witness to the aftermath of your own indifference.
The sky, aflame in the regions of lost towns, wouldnāt just burn with fireāit would burn with memory. The kind of memory that clings, that whispers in the silence, a merciless record of what once was. Youād hear it in the hollow resonance of wind howling through abandoned homes, in the groan of a rusted gate swinging aimlessly, in the creak of a swing set untouched by small hands for years. Each sound would seem to ask: *Where were you when it mattered?*
And the chimney, once a sign of warmth and life, now spits malice instead of smoke, as though the house itself has turned on its absent inhabitants. The dry leaves, scattered across the ground like forgotten pages of unwritten stories, would twist and whirl, restless in their solitude. Theyād scrape against the ground in a whisper, a sound too close to the rasp of a confession.
What if this was the end? Not an apocalypse of fire or flood, no dramatic collapse of the heavens, but a slow unravelingāa quiet disappearance. A vanishing act where humanity slips away, leaving the world intact yet utterly hollow. And what if, in that silence, you could feel it? Not just see the emptiness, but *feel* it in the marrow of your being. The absence would gnaw at you, not because of what was lost, but because youād knowāyouād *know*āyou had a hand in it.
Would you feel disdain for the masters you chose then? Or would you feel something worseāself-betrayal, a deep and abiding ache for the soul you abandoned in your pursuit of fleeting desires? Because in this end, there are no heroes, no villains, no climactic battles. There is only the truth, naked and unyielding, reflected back at you in the lifeless eyes of the world you left behind.
And maybe thatās the cruelest part. Not the disappearance itself, but the hovering. The watching. The knowing. Itās not just the world that has been emptiedāitās you. And in the stillness of it all, in the haunting quiet of a place you once called home, youād finally understand: absence isnāt just a void. Itās a mirror.
