By Callum 
The circle tightens. We begin as dust, we return to earth. Between these two points, we build, breathe, break.
Ash drifts like memory across scorched fields. The bones know the shape of flame long extinguished. The wind carries charcoal whispers of forests once green, of promises once made.
Dust settles in windows, in hollows, in creases of skin. It covers the monuments, the plastic blooms, the restless cities. It reminds: even stone wears out. Even memory erodes.
Yet in the dust there is seed. In the ashes, heat’s remembrance. Somewhere beneath the layers — in soil turned soft by time — new green insists.
To live is to accept the ashes. To build is to believe in tomorrow’s leaf. Earth is the cradle and the urn. And dust, the reminder that everything ends: only earth endures.