The Fury of Krakatoa

In the hush of Java’s seas, in Sumatra’s distant dream,
A mountain stirred beneath the waves, its heart a molten gleam.
Lang, Verlaten, Rakata—once lush with ancient green—
Held secrets in their sleeping bones, in shadows seldom seen.

May’s first whisper of the deep, steam rising like a breath,
Ash-laced exhalations carried promise… and of death.
Until August’s sky was rent—four roaring drums of flame,
A sound to shatter eardrums, to rewrite earth’s own name.

A blaze that spat skyward, eighty kilometres high,
Black night becoming crimson dawn, the heavens asking why.
Tsunamis born in molten womb swept coasts with savage grace,
Swept villages and towns away, left ghosts in water’s place.

The wave of sound, the pressure felt, circled round the globe,
A voice of nature’s sovereignty in one cataclysmic probe.
Thirty‐six thousand—some say far more—lost in fire and wave,
Lives consumed by fury wrought, no mortal hand to save.

But from the ruin, green returned. Anak, child of ash and sorrow,
Rose upon the ocean’s breast, a promise for tomorrow.
Seeds borne by birds, carried by winds, life dared to reappear,
In fragile shoots upon black bones, hope trembling near.

Krakatoa, you taught the world how small mankind can be
Before the raw, unbridled force of earth and sea and destiny.
Yet also how in aftermath, in silence after roar,
New islands rise, and hearts undaunted seek again the shore.