“East of Eden” is not collapse. It is departure.
The garden does not burn. It does not vanish. It recedes slowly as Adam and Eve walk forward. The loss is spatial, not theatrical. The world remains good. They no longer dwell within it the same way.
Verse one begins with Adam recognizing altered terrain. “The path feels longer than it did before.” The earth has not changed in size. His relationship to it has. Every step is louder because silence has shifted.
The path feels longer than it did before,
Like the earth has stretched its floor.
Every step sounds louder now,
Every breath feels like a vow.
The air is thinner past the line,
The light feels sharper, less benign.
The garden stays where we once stood,
Still whole. Still good.
Walk.
Move.
Carry.
We do not turn.
We do not plead.
We carry what we chose to seed.
We will learn the weight of toil,
Learn the language of broken soil.
Morning won’t arrive as free,
But it will still arrive for me.
The ground still answers when I land,
But now it asks more from my hand.
No effortless return to start –
The work begins inside the heart.
Remember.
Remember.
We do not run.
We do not fall.
We step beyond
what held us all.
East of Eden, not erased,
Carrying memory in our face.
The garden stands, untouched by flame,
But we are not the same.
East of Eden, step by stride,
Nothing left for us to hide.
The world is wide and we must choose
To stand
or lose.
We are not undone.
We are not destroyed.
We are changed.
Stand.
Rise.
East of Eden, moving still,
Learning weight beyond the hill.
The garden lives, the light remains –
But now
we bear
its name
