The Second Becoming Poem by Boledi R Petja

A spark ignites in the quiet.
A glow stretches along the edges of shadow.
The horizon swells with a slow, tender light.
Air moves with the weight of possibility,
and each inhale carries the hum of awakening.
Presence lingers unannounced,
like a memory that has never left.

Shards of the old world scatter,
crumbling into the spaces between moments.
They fall and dissolve, leaving room
for shapes that have never been seen.
Light touches what was hidden,
and slowly, the forms begin to shift,
as though the world is breathing itself anew.

Layers loosen and fall away.
What remains is raw, unclaimed, luminous.
From the remnants, new shapes take hold,
delicate and fierce, rising into the open air.
Fire awakens where stillness once reigned.
Wings unfold where they had been folded too long.

There is no rush, no demand.
Just the quiet insistence of becoming,
of growth coaxed from the ash,
of hope nurtured in the fractures.
Every motion, every spark,
is an act of gentle reclamation.
Even in the hush of waiting,
the world reclaims itself,
and from collapse, it rises again.