They say the name means ascent —
to break the gravity of bone.
But Sorros does not float.
It drags the earth upward,
a silent architecture of skin
draped in the debris of time.

Look in the mirror:
you are the ruin,
you are the rise,
a silhouette folding in on itself.
The end is only the beginning
wearing its own shoes inside out.

Nothing ends cleanly.
Ash feeds the orchard.
The orchard feeds the hand.
The hand feeds the flame.
From the ashes we weave the cage,
and from the cage, the wings —
not to leave the ground,
but to prove the ground exists again.

We do not soar.
We return.
We ascend only to know the weight
of the descent better.

Even silence is a corridor —
footsteps of memory moving through it,
soft as dust,
certain as tide.

The future is not a distant door
where we arrive shaking the dust from our coats.
It is the exhale of the past,
the long, slow sigh
of a mountain grinding itself
into the sand of a new beach.

Nothing is lost.
It is only being translated
into a language we have not yet learned to speak.
For the world is a Great Recurrence.
The river does not fear the sea,
for it knows the rain
is already on its way back to the mountain.

We are simply the breath
of those who exhaled a century ago,
caught now in new lungs,
waiting
to be sung again
in a different key.

Sorros is the will to rise
without forgetting the dust that made us.
It is the ascent of the fallen,
the architecture of the return —
not an escape from the world,
but the world reaching upward,
clothed in its own enduring flame.