Acrylic, Rose Pigment & Leaf pigment on Canvas
2025
152.4 x 213.4 cm; 60 x 84 in.
— After The Last Footstep —
The city never learned to sleep,
it only learned to stay—
beneath tangled wires that softly hum,
beneath dust that won’t decay.
The roads still drag old, restless trucks,
with lives they do not know,
wooden frames and iron beds
from homes long left below.
The buses pass through empty heat,
their windows blank and pale,
while food stalls burn their spices bright
for mouths that will not sail.
A wedding stands in overgrowth,
its guests all turned to air,
white cloth now soaked in dust and dew,
no laughter anywhere.
The sacred halls still hold their breath,
incense that will not fade,
while ivy climbs the prayer-worn stone
in quiet green parade.
The buildings stand, but people gone—
their rooms hold fading light,
sunlight breaking through the cracks
of absence, soft and white.
And still the city will not die,
it pushes through the seam—
grass through roads, and roots through stone,
a slow returning dream.
Markets rust, and spices fade,
yet memory lingers on,
as rain rewrites what we once made
and turns it into lawn.
Perhaps we leave no grand remains,
no gold, no carved name-stone,
just vines through glass, and wind through halls,
and earth that claims its own.
For when we’re gone, the world won’t grieve—
it simply takes its due,
and writes our cities into green,
then starts the earth anew.
Acrylic, Rose Pigment & Leaf pigment on Canvas
2025
152.4 x 213.4 cm; 60 x 84 in.
— After The Last Footstep —
The city never learned to sleep,
it only learned to stay—
beneath tangled wires that softly hum,
beneath dust that won’t decay.
The roads still drag old, restless trucks,
with lives they do not know,
wooden frames and iron beds
from homes long left below.
The buses pass through empty heat,
their windows blank and pale,
while food stalls burn their spices bright
for mouths that will not sail.
A wedding stands in overgrowth,
its guests all turned to air,
white cloth now soaked in dust and dew,
no laughter anywhere.
The sacred halls still hold their breath,
incense that will not fade,
while ivy climbs the prayer-worn stone
in quiet green parade.
The buildings stand, but people gone—
their rooms hold fading light,
sunlight breaking through the cracks
of absence, soft and white.
And still the city will not die,
it pushes through the seam—
grass through roads, and roots through stone,
a slow returning dream.
Markets rust, and spices fade,
yet memory lingers on,
as rain rewrites what we once made
and turns it into lawn.
Perhaps we leave no grand remains,
no gold, no carved name-stone,
just vines through glass, and wind through halls,
and earth that claims its own.
For when we’re gone, the world won’t grieve—
it simply takes its due,
and writes our cities into green,
then starts the earth anew.
