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Poem


These are your words of life—
not shouted, but breathed,
not carved in stone,
but whispered gently in your ear.

I carry them inside me
like the hush before a song,
like the salt before the sea.

I write them now because silence
is a kind of death
when the world is deep in sleep,
and still dreaming.

There are those who hurt
with hands,
with laws,
with sharpened tongues
that mock the soft-hearted.

Still, you speak with light,
your voice a thread of gold
making torn things whole.

Beauty is not a luxury,
it is a weapon for the soul.
A pink moon rising
above broken fields
tells me we are not finished yet.

Amongst us—
here you are.
Not loud, not cruel—
but present.
Steady as stars.
Kind as sleep.
And when you are near,
I am safe again.

The trees do not apologize
for digging deep.
They do not flinch
when winter bares their bones.

And still they bloom—
green leaves like soft flags
of silent protest.

I have seen the unjust thrive.
I have seen mercy laughed at.
But I have also seen
a child offer bread
to a stranger,
a woman sing
in a crumbling alley,
a man with scars
choose to stay gentle.

I believe in them.
I believe in you.

Your words do not wound.
They warm.
They wake.

You speak and it is
spring again.

I remember the sea—
how I’d float,
held in salt and silence.
The waves did not ask
what I had done.
They only said:
you are here,
you are whole,
you are mine.

I miss that.
But I find it now
in you.

You,
who listen without needing
to be right.
You,
who hold without holding back.
You,
who fight without fists.

Hope is not a feeling.
It is a decision.
A fragile one,
remade each day.

I choose it still.
Because people like you taught me
how.

Even if the world ends,
there will be stars.
Even if I break,
there will be hands—
soft, certain—
gathering the pieces.

Let them call it foolish,
this belief in goodness.
Let them scoff.
Let them spit.

But I will keep believing.
In trees.
In waves.
In the hush of moonlight.
In you.
scarred yet you still fight, 
For what is right 
and these are your words of life.
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