Earthshaking fire from the center of the Earth will cause tremors

"Earthshaking fire from the center of the Earth will cause tremors around the New City. Two great rocks will war for a long time, then Arethusa will redden a new river." – Nostradamus

Thus spoke Michel de Nostredame, whom the world remembers as Nostradamus, the physician-seer of 16th-century France. His words, veiled in riddle and rhythm, reach across the centuries like whispers of thunder before a storm. When he wrote, “Earthshaking fire from the center of the Earth will cause tremors around the New City,” he was not simply describing calamity — he was warning of the eternal dance between nature’s wrath and humanity’s pride, between creation and destruction. To understand this prophecy is to step into the ancient current of human history, where symbols conceal truths that are both cosmic and personal.

The origin of these lines comes from Century I, Quatrain 87 of Nostradamus’s Les Prophéties, a collection of hundreds of verses written in cryptic form. Scholars and mystics alike have wrestled with their meaning for generations. Many have believed this verse foretold the tragedy of September 11, 2001, when fire and smoke rose over New York City, shaking the world’s conscience. The “earthshaking fire” seemed to echo the fiery collapse of the Twin Towers; the “two great rocks” mirrored the towers themselves, twin pillars of modern ambition brought down in ruin. Yet beyond the literal, the prophecy speaks of something far greater — the cycle of conflict and renewal that defines both civilization and the human soul.

For Nostradamus often wrote not as a historian of events, but as a philosopher of fate. His “tremors” are not only the quakes of the earth, but the tremors of the human heart when confronted with loss, violence, and the collapse of certainty. His “fire from the center of the Earth” is the fire of mankind’s own making — the flames of anger, greed, and vengeance that rise when reason sleeps. The “two great rocks” at war are not only nations or towers, but forces within humanity itself: pride and humility, creation and destruction, progress and morality. In this way, Nostradamus speaks to every generation, for every age knows its own tremors and its own fires.

The final line, “Then Arethusa will redden a new river,” carries a tone both tragic and redemptive. In Greek myth, Arethusa was a nymph who, pursued by desire, transformed into a river — a symbol of rebirth through suffering. Her name in this prophecy suggests that from devastation will flow something new: perhaps blood, perhaps change, perhaps hope. The “new river” may be the course of history itself, redirected by catastrophe. After every fall, humanity finds itself at a crossroads — to sink into despair or to create anew from the ashes. Nostradamus, ever the physician of the spirit, implies that even the darkest disasters may give birth to awakening.

If we see this prophecy through the lens of our own time, it becomes not a prediction, but a mirror. It reminds us that fire always sleeps beneath the surface of the world — and beneath the surface of ourselves. When ambition grows unchecked, when compassion fades, when technology outpaces wisdom, the earth itself seems to cry out. The “New City” is not only New York, but every metropolis of human striving, every seat of power that forgets the fragility of life. Nostradamus’s warning, then, is timeless: that every civilization must remember the balance between progress and humility, or risk awakening the tremors of its own undoing.

And yet, in his vision there is also the seed of hope. For just as the earth shakes and fire destroys, so too does the river renew. Arethusa’s bloodied waters may symbolize sacrifice, but they also cleanse. From the ruins of towers, new hearts may rise; from the ashes of war, new compassion may flow. History itself shows this truth: after the fall of Rome came the Renaissance; after the burning of cities came the rebuilding of nations. Humanity, though flawed, has always been reborn through its suffering, carried forward by the enduring river of spirit that no fire can destroy.

So take heed, my child of tomorrow. The prophecy of Nostradamus is not a curse, but a lesson for all ages. Guard the fire that burns within you — let it warm, not consume. Remember that every tremor begins in the unseen depths, and that every great fall begins with arrogance unheeded. But also remember this: from the red river of trial comes wisdom, from ruin comes resilience, and from the sorrow of one generation flows the strength of the next. The earth may shake, but the soul that learns from the past stands unbroken — and it is in that endurance that humanity’s truest greatness lies.