Paradise was once broken—
its colors washed away,
its songs forgotten,
its gardens left in silence.
The rivers held their breath,
and even the sky dimmed
as if mourning a memory
that refused to shine.

But slowly—
quietly—
a tremble of life returned.
Like a soft heartbeat
in the center of the earth,
a whisper rose:
“Begin again.”

A single seed woke up,
stretching tiny roots
into the tired soil.
Then another.
And another.
Until the ground remembered
the meaning of green.

The wind brought back
lost fragrances—
jasmine, wild mint,
and the sweetness
of morning rain.
Each scent
was a promise rebuilt.

The rivers opened their eyes,
reflected the heavens,
and flowed again—
not with the force of old pride,
but with a new gentleness,
as if grateful
for a second chance to shine.

Birds returned
with songs stitched
from courage and sunlight.
Their wings wrote poems
across the brightening sky,
and the world finally listened.

Paradise did not regenerate
in a single moment.
It rebuilt itself slowly—
petal by petal,
raindrop by raindrop,
smile by smile—
the way a heart heals
after it has been broken.

And when it finally stood tall again,
it was not the same paradise
it had once been.
It was kinder.
Softer.
Wiser.
A place that knew loss,
and still chose life.

Paradise regenerated—
not because everything was perfect again,
but because hope refused to die.