When the Fire Never Comes (Fertile Ground)

Stone thinks itself eternal,

but water whispers,

and drip by drip

the fortress begins to weep.

Trees stretch proud and high,

yet fire comes hungry —

cracking bark,

turning green to ash.

We call it ruin,

but nature calls it renewal.

Water erodes,

fire destroys,

yet both carve space

for the soil to breathe again.

The old ecosystem dies,

but beneath the smoke,

beneath the rubble,

the earth is darker, softer,

waiting for seeds

that could never take root before.

So do not fear the flood,

do not curse the flame —

they are not endings,

but beginnings,

for every ecosystem knows:

destruction is only

the first breath of fertile ground.

A forest without fire

grows heavy with its own weight.

Dead wood piles high,

choking the soil,

shadowing the young.

A river without flood

stagnates in its bed.

Stone walls hold it still,

but the water turns green,

mosquitoes singing

where fish once danced.

An ecosystem that never breaks

does not stay alive —

it stiffens,

it silts,

it suffocates.

What looks like safety

becomes slow decay.

What looks like preservation

is only delay.

For nature was never made

to stand untouched,

but to cycle,

to fall,

to rise again —

forever renewed

through endings embraced.

The choice is yours:

stay where things slowly decay,

or let the earth break and remake,

reshaping your ecosystem.

Even the earth knows when the cycle must end and begin again.

Stone holds against years, but not against magma — and when it erupts as lava, water claims the rest.

Which one will you choose?

When rebirth feels like death.