The storm has fled the valley, dark and deep,
The howling wind has ceased its mournful cry.
Awake, my soul, from sorrow’s heavy sleep,
And gaze upon the clearing, azure sky.
Though winter’s frost has stripped the garden bare,
The roots beneath the snow remain alive.
Do not surrender hope to cold despair,
For even through the ice, the blooms survive.
The wound that once did bleed with sharpest pain,
Shall turn to armor for your gentle heart.
No tear you shed has ever fallen vain,
But forms a masterpiece of healing art.
So rise again to meet the morning light,
For love shall find you when the shadows end.
The chapter closes on the lonely night,
To let the broken spirit softly mend.
It is in the quiet aftermath of loss that we rediscover our own vastness. Just as the oak grows stronger bark where it was once struck, the human heart finds its deepest capacity for love not in perfection, but in the mending of its fractures. Believe in the spring that inevitably follows the longest winter.
