EARTH’S LAST PRAYER BY RAHEES IBN RAFEEQ

I was not born of noise,
but of a whisper in the dark—
a spinning breath of light and dust,
a fragile, glowing spark.

I once wore oceans like silver thread,
stitched clouds across my skin,
I taught the winds to sing in storms
and let the forests grow within.

But listen now—
do you hear my shaking ground?
The silence of my melting ice,
the forests falling down?

I carried you like morning dew,
like life upon my hands,
but you carved your names in fire and smoke
across my rivers and sands.

My skies once knew the language of birds,
my rivers learned to pray—
but now they cough in poisoned breath,
and slowly fade away.

Mountains bend beneath your weight,
seas forget their shore,
and every wound you open wide
becomes an ever-deeper scar.

I tried to speak in earthquakes,
in hurricanes of grief,
but you called it only “weather,”
and offered no belief.

Now I stand at the edge of time,
my voice almost gone—
a fading hymn of what I was,
before the breaking dawn.

If I had hands, I would not strike,
if I had tears, I’d fall—
I only ask you hear me now,
before I lose it all.

For I am not just rock and sky,
not soil, not sea, not flame—
I am the home you borrowed once,
and Earth is still my name.

And this is my last prayer to you—
not thunder, not command—
just learn to love me while I live,
before I slip from your hands.

EARTH’S LAST PRAYER

I was not born of noise,
but of a whisper in the dark—
a spinning breath of light and dust,
a fragile, glowing spark.

I once wore oceans like silver thread,
stitched clouds across my skin,
I taught the winds to sing in storms
and let the forests grow within.

But listen now—
do you hear my shaking ground?
The silence of my melting ice,
the forests falling down?

I carried you like morning dew,
like life upon my hands,
but you carved your names in fire and smoke
across my rivers and sands.

My skies once knew the language of birds,
my rivers learned to pray—
but now they cough in poisoned breath,
and slowly fade away.

Mountains bend beneath your weight,
seas forget their shore,
and every wound you open wide
becomes an ever-deeper scar.

I tried to speak in earthquakes,
in hurricanes of grief,
but you called it only “weather,”
and offered no belief.

Now I stand at the edge of time,
my voice almost gone—
a fading hymn of what I was,
before the breaking dawn.

If I had hands, I would not strike,
if I had tears, I’d fall—
I only ask you hear me now,
before I lose it all.

For I am not just rock and sky,
not soil, not sea, not flame—
I am the home you borrowed once,
and Earth is still my name.

And this is my last prayer to you—
not thunder, not command—
just learn to love me while I live,
before I slip from your hands.

I was not born of noise,
but of a whisper in the dark—
a spinning breath of light and dust,
a fragile, glowing spark.

I once wore oceans like silver thread,
stitched clouds across my skin,
I taught the winds to sing in storms
and let the forests grow within.

But listen now—
do you hear my shaking ground?
The silence of my melting ice,
the forests falling down?

I carried you like morning dew,
like life upon my hands,
but you carved your names in fire and smoke
across my rivers and sands.

My skies once knew the language of birds,
my rivers learned to pray—
but now they cough in poisoned breath,
and slowly fade away.

Mountains bend beneath your weight,
seas forget their shore,
and every wound you open wide
becomes an ever-deeper scar.

I tried to speak in earthquakes,
in hurricanes of grief,
but you called it only “weather,”
and offered no belief.

Now I stand at the edge of time,
my voice almost gone—
a fading hymn of what I was,
before the breaking dawn.

If I had hands, I would not strike,
if I had tears, I’d fall—
I only ask you hear me now,
before I lose it all.

For I am not just rock and sky,
not soil, not sea, not flame—
I am the home you borrowed once,
and Earth is still my name.

And this is my last prayer to you—
not thunder, not command—
just learn to love me while I live,
before I slip from your hands.