We are the children of burning things— born from ash, forged in flight, hearts stitched with static and the breath of vanished stars. The world gave us cities, and we made them dream. It gave us silence, and we taught it to sing with cracked violins and thunder thoughts. We wear hope like a second skin— patched, wrinkled, beautiful. Even as oceans climb the stairs of our last libraries, we build boats from books, let paper cuts bleed poetry. Our memories are coded in sky-glow, auroras of love and loss— grief dancing in colors only the future understands. And if tomorrow forgets our names, let it at least remember this: That once, we dared to love the impossible and kiss the lips of chaos to feel the universe respond.