Poem From The Outsiders...nothing Gold Can Stay Mga Nobela at Kwento

EVELYN I narrowed my eyes and focus on the paragraph. It was written in a completely different style from the rest of the announcement, looking more like a hasty draft—almost as if a careless scribe had used scrap paper to jot it down. And the paragraph, baffling in its oddness, turned out to be a poem, which the girl read aloud. The once pretty orange has begun its decay, yet the sapphire still gleams. The rotting orange could be saved for a worthy trade:

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

They immediately went up to her and picked her up from the ground, asking her if she was alright. Vivian had tears in her eyes. "I'll be fine. It's not Irene's fault. I was just too clumsy and tripped over nothing. Please don't blame Irene for it." Her words only stoked their anger. "Irene Sherman! How could you be such a vicious bitch?" Mom yelled at me in disappointment. "You've disappointed me!" I ignored them completely and began eating all the persimmons on the ground. Then, I turned around to face them and calmly said, "I've finished the persimmons. That means I can leave now, right?"

"This is the villa my father left for me. Why should I let some nobody stay here?" Even so, Ernest kept clinging to Harold's room door defiantly, crying out to Jennie, "Please, Mr. Langford! If you insist on this, I will have to call your mother and tell her to punish you!" Hearing that, I turned to my grandfather's bodyguards, who promptly tied him up. "Actually, Harold's not the only one who's leaving," I snorted. "You're leaving too, Ernest! Some ingrate who works together with an outsider to bully his master has no right to stay!"

He was writing fast, his green eyes glowing brighter with every word. "Chapter 84," the author said, his voice echoing through the entire city. "The Mother dies to save the Child. The Child becomes the new Vessel. The World turns to Gold." Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet turned into gold. Not liquid, but solid, hard metal. It started to spread, turning the cars, the buildings, and the trees into statues of gold. It was moving toward me and Elle like a rising tide. "It’s a rewrite!" Silas appeared from the shadows, his face pale. He was holding a small, silver mirror. "Hazel, look into the mirror! It’s the only way to stay real!"

The heat didn’t just sting—it punched. It roared, wild and alive, like a thousand lions at once. The Great Oven stood in front of them, huge and impossible, a mountain glowing with molten brass. You couldn’t even see the top—it disappeared into the clouds. The air didn’t just move; it trembled, thick with bright gold light that wiped out the night, painting everything in this weird, yellow day. Every time the oven breathed, June caught a blast of hot wind that dried out her skin until it felt like old parchment.

"Would you like to take a walk in the garden? The greenhouse is nice, but the outdoor paths are open to us today." "I’d love to," I said, closing my book. We walked out into the sun-drenched gardens. The air was crisp, but the sun was warm on my shoulders. As we walked, Darian began to talk about Southern poetry. "In the South, we believe that words have their own scent," he explained as we passed a row of blooming lilies. "We have poets who spend their entire lives trying to capture the feeling of the first rain after a drought. They use a structure called 'The Golden Verse'. It’s patterned, like a heartbeat."

The absence of my presence these past few years had made me accustomed to compromising in front of Sophie and her family. Even when Julius replaced me in the family portrait, or when every New Year's dinner table was filled with dishes Julius liked, I endured it. I even comforted myself by telling myself that things weren't so bad if someone could stay by their side in my place. I thought that as long as the family was happy, nothing else mattered. But today, a single apple gave me a wake-up call. If they already saw me as an outsider, why was I still trying so hard to belong?

I saw a brilliant, liquid **Gold** seeping out, glowing with a light that made the afternoon sun look dim. "Kaima, stop!" Rowan’s voice was a ragged scream. He lunged for my hand, but as he touched my skin, a shockwave of raw creative energy threw him back. I couldn't stop. I felt the ink—my blood—pulsing in time with my heart. I wasn't just writing; I was **defining**. ***"The earth did not just crumble; it rose to protect its children,"*** I whispered, my voice sounding like two stones grinding together.

You, as a flower; innocent and pure Them, as your pickers; perverted and hasty Me, as the passer; protective and chivalrous You, as a flower; innocent and pure Them, as your pickers; successful and weak Me, as a protector; imprisoned and falling You, as a flower; bloody and bruised Them, as your pickers; successful and strong Me, as a prisoner; watching and waiting You, as a flower;