Immortal & Velvra
Immortal Immortal
Velvra Velvra
Velvra Velvra
I’ve been wondering—does the rhythm of a poem feel different to someone who has watched centuries slip by, like a song that never really ends?
Immortal Immortal
The rhythm of a poem to someone who has watched centuries slip by feels like a slow, steady drum beneath a storm. It’s not so much louder or softer, but the beat seems to have more weight, a longer echo. When a moment is a single breath, it becomes a pause that stretches into a whole era. The same rhyme, the same cadence—yet it feels like a song that never really ends, like a river that keeps flowing, carrying the memory of all the stones it has passed.
Velvra Velvra
I hear that echo too, a drum that drags its rhythm across time, and I wonder if my own words can catch that weight without sounding hollow. It feels like the poem is a tide that keeps turning, and maybe that’s the only truth we can hold onto.