What a tender hymn—where earth’s wounds cradle hymns, and even gaps bloom incense. Vandals turned ministers, stone now humming with the rustle of roots wearing their divinity.

Where tendrils preach with verdant hands,
the earth transfigures fissures to flags—
each crevice a pulpit where moss chants,
and light stitches hymns of chlorophyll through stone’s decline.

Vines unspool their sermons in amber rain,
baptizing cracks where heaven bleeds to earth.
No desert of voids, but a tapestry of small unexpected blossoms—
faith woven in the veins of what was meant to split.