The Ashen Mother (Epic dark-folk / neoclassical poem; a global lament for the modern era. Explores themes of death, Santa Muerte, and geopolitical collapse.)

The Ashen Mother
Shadows spiral, whispering your creed,
Silver smoke of cities, starving mouths that bleed.
A mother’s milk curdled with tear gas rain,
Gracias, Madre, you cradle both birth and pain.
Moonlit mirrors fracture into dust,
Your cloak consumes the tyrant and the gust.
I stumble through the silence, but your scythe paints dawn,
Your bone – dust sketches futures when all else is gone.

Chorus
The Ashen Mother, sway us through the night,
Carry broken nations through the failing light.
You hold the hourglass, spilling human sand,
Dancing on the edge where no one understands.
The Ashen Mother- Muerte, cradle every scar,
From the junkyard needle to the drone-burnt star.
You hold the silence — you ignite the fight,
Bleeding into dawn where death devours light.
V.2
Crimson candles gutter, data-screens decay,
Your altar built of bullets, prayers, and clay.
Quantum tremors ripple through the human tide,
Gracias, for holding me where despair resides.
Velvet venom vectors through the veins of time,
Skulls of empires crumble in your rhyme.
You whisper to the addicts, to the drone-strike dead,
To children clutching shadows in a shelters bed.
Chorus
The Ashen Mother, sway us through the night,
Carry broken nations through the failing light.
You hold the hourglass, spilling human sand,
Dancing on the edge where no one understands.
The Dawn Thief, cradle every scar,
From the junkyard needle to the drone-burnt star.
You hold the silence — you ignite the fight,
Bleeding into dawn where death devours light.
Bridge
Petals pierce the void where nations gasp and bleed,
Your scythes the only harvest in this poisoned seed.
Santisima, por que? Why mend? Why mock?
Shattered glass… cosmos clock – stopped – tick-drop.
I scream «Gracias!» into the chasms flame,
Your shadow answers back – but never by name.

Outro
Santa Muerte, whose cloak absorbs our global cry,
Bones of empires, roses where the children lie.
You’re the silent after impact, the first faint spark,
A breath – as fragile as a comet sighing in the dark.
… And yet….
….this breath…
remains.