The Crow
They asked the mountain, old with snow,
“What keeps your ancient heart aglow?”
It did not speak in thunder’s cry—
It held the sunrise in the sky.
They asked the river, running fast,
“What makes a moment always pass?”
It laughed in silver, sipped their hands,
And wrote its answer on the sands.
They asked the forest, deep and wide,
“What truth do quiet roots hide?”
The leaves replied in trembling air:
“To lose the light is still to share.”
They asked the night with all its stars,
“Why beauty blooms in distant scars?”
The dark leaned close without a sound
And let a billion lights be found.
At last they asked the human heart,
That breaks and mends and breaks apart,
“What secret beats beneath your pain?”
It whispered, “Love — again, again.”
Not gold, nor fame, nor victory’s breath,
Not walls that keep the world from death,
But reaching out when hope feels thin,
And letting fragile brightness in.
The secret is not locked away,
Nor written where the wise men stay—
It lives in ordinary days
In quiet acts, in stubborn grace.
It is the hand you choose to hold,
The mercy given more than told,
The way you rise though torn apart,
Still carrying an open heart.
And when the final dusk arrives,
And silence folds our little lives,
The only thing we ever keep
Is love we gave — and love made deep.
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