“ A Lost Thunder: If I Could Bring Back One Dinosaur”

“ A Lost Thunder: If I Could Bring Back One Dinosaur”

In the hush of twilight, when dreams wander across the veil of time, I often wonder—what if history could whisper louder? What if one majestic creature, long erased by fate, could tread again upon this Earth?

Were I granted the solemn magic to summon one dinosaur from the crypts of the Mesozoic age, I would choose not the fiercest, nor the swiftest, nor the most outlandish—but the Brachiosaurus, the gentle colossus of the Jurassic era.

With its elongated neck stretching like an ode to the heavens, and its lumbering grace casting shadows that kissed the stars, the Brachiosaurus was less a beast and more a moving monument of time. A living tower of tranquillity. In the thickets of primeval forests, it swayed like a slow-moving prayer, munching leaves with the peace of a monk in meditation.

Why this creature, you may ask?

Because the world, as it stands, is not in want of more aggression or terror. We have forged weapons more fearsome than the Tyrannosaurus rex. Our skies, once blue and benevolent, now bear witness to storms of our own making. What we lack, truly, is wonder—grandeur without arrogance, strength without fury, size without destruction.

The Brachiosaurus, in my eyes, is an emblem of that sublime paradox. A creature so immense, yet so serene. In its very existence lies a reminder that power need not roar. Sometimes, it simply breathes.

Philosophers through the ages have marvelled at the concept of “magnificence in moderation.” Aristotle saw it as a virtue—sadness in proportion, purpose, and perspective. The Brachiosaurus, then, becomes a symbol of this lost virtue: an unhurried titan that never trampled the world, but walked upon it with mindful steps. In bringing it back, we might learn again to walk gently upon the Earth.

Imagine standing in a sun-dappled glade at dawn, the mist curling like silver smoke around your ankles, and then—out of the forest—comes this giant of a bygone dream. It does not charge. It does not threaten. It pauses, it breathes, and then it continues its timeless march as though it were never extinct.

To see such a creature would be to confront the soul of time itself.

It would be a hymn to evolution, a living verse of poetry that predates language. The rustle of its movement would be like the turning of ancient pages—the epic of existence murmured again into the ears of mankind.

Would we learn from it? Or would we cage it, brand it, and turn it into spectacle?

That, dear reader, is a question not for the dinosaur, but for us.

A Few Final Verses to End This Muse:

Bring me the beast who towers above,
Yet stirs no fear, but silent love.
Not claw, nor fang, nor crimson trail
But leaves and skies within its tale.

A soul from yore, with eyes so wide,
A titan with no need for pride.
May we, like it, learn grace anew—
To walk the Earth with reverence is true.

In the end, it’s not just the creature we bring back, but the conscience we must awaken. Let the Brachiosaurus return—not as a marvel of science alone—but as a moral of existence.

A soft thunder from a forgotten world, reminding us: greatness lies not in ruling the world, but in belonging to it!