The Black Death

The Black Death

The Black Death came silently,

creeping through streets and fields,

through doors left open,

through markets crowded with life.

It moved like a shadow,

not seen, not heard,

but felt in every glance,

every cough, every shiver.

I walk among empty houses,

windows dark, doors closed tight,

the smell of smoke and decay lingering,

and I hear the quiet,

the absence of sound,

heavier than any cry.

It touched the people slowly,

the young, the old, the strong,

turning warmth into fever,

life into stillness.

Neighbors vanished,

friends vanished,

families folded into themselves,

and I watched,

unable to stop it,

unable to name it.

Everywhere littered with what was left behind,

clothes, shoes, small toys,

the belongings of those who had gone.

And the wind carried the smell,

a bitter, sharp reminder

that nothing survives without cost.

I feel it in the air,

pressing against my skin,

a cold that seeps into bones,

a quiet waiting everywhere.

The world becomes slow,

each step deliberate,

each breath heavy,

as if the earth itself holds its breath,

waiting for the end

or for something to begin again.

Even in the dark,

I see their shadows,

the lives folded into history,

the hands that reached for nothing,

the eyes that searched

for a light that would not return.

And I stand among it all,

small, alive, trembling,

and I know the weight of absence,

the pull of what was lost,

and how life continues,

even when it should not.