Edges of the Head

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  A head is not merely bone and skin, but a chamber of storms, where thought churns like restless seas and colours spill beyond their edges. What can the brain contain? It holds infinities, yet bends beneath routines: the labour of survival, the weight of names, the endless tally of tasks that tether imagination to necessity. Once there was a freedom— a childhood bright with unscripted hues, where colours did not ask permission to scatter, and play was the only labour. But thresholds arrive, drawn by institutions, by timetables, by the slow narrowing of sky into ceiling. Here the child learns to sit, to raise a hand, to speak in sequence, to dream only in sanctioned hours. The head adapts. It absorbs order as it once absorbed wonder, and the saturation of colour dims into function. Yet at the edges, still, the threshold glimmers— a reminder that within the skull’s dark theatre there lingers a pulse of rebellion, a fragment of the child unwilling to be tamed. And perhaps that ...

Forged from Earth

 

From molten heart of planets,
Rocks rose, metals slept in veins,
Iron in silence, copper in dreams,
Waiting for hands to awaken them.

We cracked the mountains open,
Pulled silver from the dark,
Bent steel into arches,
Set gold against the sun.

What was once only dust and ore
Became tools, became temples,
Became rings of promise,
Became weapons of fire.

Beauty and burden,
We carved both from the same stone.
Our treasures glitter —
Yet they weigh upon our souls.

For the universe knows no jewels,
Only stars burning in their truth.
It is we who call them possessions,
Forgetting we, too,
Are borrowed from the Earth.

Hold what you make,
But lightly.
Even the hardest rock,
In time, returns to dust.