When Flowers Dream of Us

After the blast, silence dominates. The ground is fractured, roots laid bare, and the air sits heavy with dust. Crimson flowers once blanketed this place; now only ash lingers, and the memory of their color. A voice rises in ʿAsfouri, the vanished language of birds, addressing the soil and any listener still tuned to it. No humans remain, only the scattered echo of his words riding the wind. When we are gone, will the flowers bloom again?