Whispers of the Earth

Beneath the hush of morning dew,

when dawn still trembles, soft and new,

the Earth exhales—a gentle sigh,

a whisper born where dreams still lie.

It hums through roots and blades of green,

through hidden places seldom seen,

through stones that hold a thousand years,

and rivers carved by ancient tears.

The soil remembers every tread,

each footstep of the souls long dead.

Their echoes weave through dust and clay,

their laughter buried, yet at play.

The trees, those keepers of the air,

their branches heavy, wise, and fair,

they murmur secrets in the breeze,

and cradle stars between their leaves.

The ocean hums a lullaby,

its voice both fierce and soft as sky.

It pulls the moon with tender grace,

its waves a rhythm time can’t erase.

Each drop that breaks upon the shore

has been here countless times before.

A pilgrim lost, then found again,

reborn through sun and cloud and rain.

Mountains speak in thundered tones,

their hearts of granite, flesh of stone.

They guard the world with silent might,

their peaks like torches catching light.

Yet even they must one day fade,

their dust to mingle, softly laid,

to feed the moss, to nurse the seed,

to gift the world what all hearts need.

The meadow hums in golden hues,

a thousand blossoms drink the dew.

The bees compose a buzzing tune,

a hymn beneath the watching moon.

A fox slips past with knowing grace,

a wildness shining in its face.

It does not hurry, does not wait—

it moves in rhythm with its fate.

And somewhere, in a field of wheat,

a child runs with bare, quick feet.

The wind lifts laughter through her hair,

and time forgets it’s even there.

The Earth, she watches, calm, aware,

her whispers tangled in the air.

Each rustling leaf, each subtle tone,

a message written, yet unknown.

Listen—oh, if you would hear,

the hum beneath the human fear.

The world still sings, despite our noise,

still cradles loss, still births new joys.

She whispers not in words or rhymes,

but through the pulse of ancient times.

Through winter’s chill and summer’s flame,

through death and birth, they are the same.

Each ending feeds a bright rebirth,

each silence seeds the living Earth.

No pain is lost, no joy undone,

each breath connects us, one by one.

We’ve built our walls and lit our screens,

forgot the pulse between the seams,

the wild, untamed, forgiving ground,

that waits for us without a sound.

The city hums, the streetlights gleam,

we chase our goals, forget to dream.

But still, beneath the asphalt gray,

the Earth remembers every day.

She calls in rain, in mist, in snow,

in quiet ways we used to know.

A robin’s song, a river’s sigh—

these are her ways to testify.

If we but paused, if we but knelt,

and touched the soil our fathers felt,

we’d hear her voice within the loam,

“Come back,” she whispers, “you are home.”

For home is not the roof, the walls,

but where the first soft raindrop falls.

Where roots entwine, where hearts belong,

where silence shapes the purest song.

So when the stars unfold their flame,

and night and day forget their name,

listen close, beneath the mirth—

you’ll hear the whispers of the Earth.

The ones that speak of love and loss,

of tender hope, of morning frost.

Of rivers dancing, mountains wide,

of souls that lived, and never died.

Because the Earth does not forget,

the stories written, the suns that set.

She holds them close, beneath her skin,

and hums them softly, deep within.

So close your eyes, and let her speak,

her wisdom flows to those who seek.

No book can teach, no voice can preach,

the truth the Earth can gently reach.

And when your heart begins to glow,

with quiet peace you didn’t know,

you’ll understand what life is worth—

to hear the whispers of the Earth.