“The Breathing Edge”

[Muskan Sharma 42]

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In the hush between centuries,
Earth turns softly, not always heard.
Roots pulse beneath concrete,
mountains adjust their spines beneath oceans.

The sky is no longer the same blue—
it carries the fingerprints of every age:
embers of early firelight,
the shimmer of wires crossing time,
the whisper of satellites brushing silence.

Once, rivers sang in unbroken loops,
now they pause—
waiting for machines to rest,
for hands to remember coolness,
for feet to step lighter.

Trees hold conversations
older than nations.
Their leaves are tiny suns,
photosynthesizing patience.

Yet life—life keeps inventing itself:
Bees learn new routes when flowers move.
Coral rebuilds where it can, pixel by pixel.
Even the wind rehearses new songs
through scaffolding and steel.

We are not at the end.
We are at the edge
of learning again how to listen.

The world is evolving—not ending,
but shifting its weight,
asking softly:
Can you still feel me breathe?