In shadowed streets where silence weeps,
And echoes chase the feet of time,
A whisper hums where sorrow sleeps,
“Stay soft,” it sings, “though life may climb
Its thorn-wrought walls and break your skin,
Do not let hardness settle in.”

For pain may press with quiet might,
May twist the dawn into the night,
But you, dear soul, are not your ache,
Not every bruise, not every break.
You are the hush between the rain,
The breath that rises after pain.

So let it hurt. Let teardrops fall
Like silver bells down sorrow’s wall.
Let it swell and let it sting,
Grief is a wild, untamed thing.
But let it heal. The heart, it knows
How even shattered gardens grow.

And when the ache begins to fade,
Like fog dissolved by morning’s blade,
Let it go—release its hold,
The stories pain has tried to mold.
You are more than what you bear,
A flame still dancing through despair.

So rise, as mist that greets the sun,
As rivers do when thaw has come.
Rise soft, rise fierce, rise with your grace,
The world may harden—but not your face.
Smile with the soul that’s weathered through,
There’s still a bloom inside of you.