—Svalbard, 78°14′N, 15°29′E

You were built
not for now,
but for the afterward.
For the hush after the howl,
the smoke after the signing of the end.

Steel womb in permafrost,
you sleep beneath a crown of ice,
cradling tomorrow in bar-coded silence.
No prayers here, just packets.
No saints, just strains.
Oats. Barley. Soy.
The quiet apostles of another possible spring.

While the world above
gutted its forests like fish,
and dined on plastic promises
served with a side of denial,
you were the ark we mocked,
a cold storage myth
for sentimental scientists and Nordic paranoids.

But here we are,
ashes in our teeth,
arguing over recipes for rat.

The vault remains.

A corridor of cryogenic hope,
dormant but not dead.
Every drawer a love letter
from some forgotten agrarian
who still believed
that food was more than fuel
and soil was not a slur.

Let the skyscrapers rot.
Let the flags fade and the markets choke
on their own algorithms.

Let this be the monument
a vault of voiceless things
that knew how to grow.

And when some future wanderer,
starved but still curious,
breaches your frostbitten mouth,
let them find
not just seeds,
but the story of restraint.

That someone once thought to save
instead of burn.
That someone,
somewhere,
left the light on
in the dark.