Echo of What Could Be

Beneath a sky of violet flame,

the traveler stands, unnamed by name,

boots sinking into ash-soft ground,

where crystal trees make no sound.

The air hums low, alive with thought,

a whisper of things both is and not,

stars curve inward, then drift away,

time itself seems to bend and sway.

He wonders if the void holds more—

a thousand worlds, a million doors,

each step a key, each breath a sign,

each silence hinting at design.

Could stone be flesh, could dust be dream?

Could rivers flow with light unseen?

Could memory be a future’s seed,

could want itself give birth to need?

Here, on this planet strange and still,

the traveler feels a widening will,

that in the fabric of the skies,

every answer waits—disguised.

And so he walks, and so he dares,

through trembling air and starlit stairs,

knowing the cosmos, vast and free,

is only the echo of what could be.