I
Lo, when the final breath has fled,
When every star is dimmed or dead,
When thought forgets the path it tread,
And silence claims what time once said—
There rises not a flame nor cry,
No judgement cast from earth or sky;
Just stillness, vast and drawing nigh,
Where all that was forgets to die.
For death implies a farther shore,
A space where echoes linger more—
But in this hush, no sound restores,
No trace remains of what came before.
II
Here lies the line no fate may bend,
No god unmake, no force amend;
The point no mind can comprehend,
Where all beginnings meet their end.
Not void, for void implies a lack;
Not dark, for dark has shades of black;
Not ruin, for ruins may come back—
This place leaves nothing in its track.
In this domain no numbers grow,
For even zero fears its flow;
No memory dares form below,
Nor truth survives to even know.
III
Before it, endings kneel in shame;
Their quiet pales before its claim.
For endings still preserve a frame—
A fading mark, a dying flame.
But this is where all frames collapse,
Where language folds, where meaning snaps;
Where thought itself finds final lapse,
And time forgets its ancient maps.
It trims not life, nor cuts the thread,
Nor steals the breath from mortal head;
It strikes instead at what has been said,
And strips all tales until they're shed.
IV
No grief can bloom, no joy can cling,
No sorrow whisper on its wing;
For grief and joy are passing thing
And here lose right to even sing.
It takes not hearts, nor limbs, nor mind,
But sweeps the trails they leave behind—
The weight of thought, the ties that bind,
All drawn beyond the bounds defined.
This is the verge where endings cease,
Where even final words find peace;
Where change decays to still release,
And every motion finds decrease.
V
When universes fade to sighs
And planes collapse, once vast and wise,
Their laws unspun before their eyes—
This hush consumes without disguise.
For what survives the last of light?
Not will, not wrath, not force nor might.
No god may stand or stir or smite
Where stories lose their final right.
Here fades the chronicle of old,
The tale once fierce, once bright, once bold—
Dissolved before it can be told,
Unwritten by a silence cold.
VI
No crown adorns this quiet throne,
For thrones require realms to own;
And realms require a core, a zone—
All swept aside, all overthrown.
No scribe may ink this final claim,
For ink demands a thought to frame;
Here, thought itself forsakes its name
And all that lingers is the same.
A hush so still it breaches law,
A stillness kings and spirits draw;
A gulf where truth forgets its flaw
And knowing shatters into awe.
VII
Call it the ultimate release,
The place where every turning cease,
Where conflict ends without surcease,
And all design dissolves to peace.
Call it the point where forms unmake,
Where even chaos fails to shake,
Where dreams dissolve, where tales forsake
The claim of being still awake.
A hush not born of cruel intent,
Nor wrath, nor will, nor malcontent;
But simply where all thought is spent
And stories lose the power to vent.
VIII
For here no lasting trace may stand,
No voice may rise, no guiding hand;
All drifts beyond the final strand,
Unmarked, unmade, by silent sand.
The last of time here finds its stay,
Its ticking fades, its hours stray;
The past unbinds, the future grey—
All folds into the quiet sway.
Thus ends the line, the thread, the tome,
Where even endings cease to roam;
Where every tale denies its home,
Consumed in hush without a dome.
Noctharum-Amnestethar may reign
Where endings weep in muted strain—
But this hush lies beyond its chain,
The state where "end" itself is slain.