O restless feet that knew no sleep,
you chased the wind, you climbed the steep;
yet every dawn, the sky grew wide,
and every dusk, the dream denied.
You bore the dust, you braved the rain,
your heart endured uncounted pain;
but still the road, a serpent long,
sang only trials in its song.
The thorns were sharp, the shadows deep,
your nights were short, you could not weep;
for tears were dry, and hope was thin,
yet still you dared to walk within.
O Time, you thief with silent hands,
you mock the soul with shifting sands;
you let us run, yet move the gate,
till triumph turns to cruel fate.
What is this “end” we long to see?
A crown? A stone? A memory?
Or is the end a hidden flame,
that burns within, without a name?
Perhaps the goal was never far,
not bound in stone, nor hung in star;
perhaps the march, the pain, the breath,
are victories that conquer death.
O weary heart, lift up once more,
though faltered wings refuse to soar;
for in your scars the truth is found—
the journey is the sacred ground.
So let the world proclaim defeat,
yet still shall echo your heartbeat;
for those who fall, but rise again,
are crowned by struggle, not by gain.
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