Poem: The Path

Beneath the boughs where silence sleeps,
A winding trail through shadows creeps.
No map to guide, no sign to see—
Just earth below and sky set free.

The path begins with trembling feet,
A whisper where the wild hearts meet.
Each step a question, soft and true,
A dance of dawn in morning dew.

It winds through sorrow, loops through grace,
Past mirrored lakes that show your face.
You walk alone, yet not apart—
For stars and roots know every heart.

There are no shortcuts, no retreat,
No perfect lines, no plans complete.
But oh, the strength that gently grows
In quiet ground and melting snows.

You’ll stumble, break, then rise once more,
Each fall a key, each wound a door.
The path is made by those who move
With open hands and something to prove.

And when you think the end is near,
The road bends back, a curve unclear.
For every end is just a start—
The path is walked within the heart.