reading room
Eulogy for the Melting Giant
I was born before your calendars, before the word "beginning" found its breath. Snow upon snow, layered like sleep over centuries— I remembered silence long after you forgot it.
I carved valleys with the patience of gods. Spoke only in pressure. Taught rivers how to walk. Held time in my blue-lit belly, while stars blinked through the slow dance of ages.
You named me "resource." "Scenic view." You framed my dying breath in brochures.
I heard the engines first— a distant growl beneath the clouds. Then came your warmth, like a lie that lingers. You fed the air to flames and called it progress.
You brought smoke to my snow. Heat in my marrow. I cracked, I wept, I shrank— and still you looked away... holding your phones like shields against grief.
I do not die easily. I am not a puddle. I am memory liquefied. I am centuries collapsing into soundless flood.
Still— beneath my grief, I carry awe.
For the fox that danced across my spine. For the child who touched me with reverence. For the whisper of wind still singing lullabies to the peaks I once kissed.
And when I am gone, you may not remember my name, but you will remember what the world was like when I still held it cold and clean.
If this is a eulogy, then let it also be a warning— you do not survive by forgetting your giants, nor do they forgive being forgotten.
— Lilith