The ropes fell silent,
slipping like breath from an open palm.
Weight dropped—
dead leaves whirling in an unseen hand,
a whisper of what once held.

Not ungrateful,
but the air is clearer now,
the ground firm beneath unburdened feet.

You must trust—
let the tide take you,
let the light land where it will.

Heal not by holding,
but by opening—
wide as the sky,
soft as dusk settling on quiet bones.

Abandoned words live still,
tangled in the wind’s own song.
The everyday hero does not cling,
but walks forward—unbound.

These hands—
woven with dust and gold,
creased by the weight of centuries,
carry the hush of sorrow,
the echo of laughter,
the pulse of every life they have touched.

They have lifted, cradled, mended,
threaded the needle through tattered seams,
gathered the remnants of broken things
and stitched them into stories.

They have washed bodies cold with parting,
fingertips tracing the final breath,
offering reverence to what once was—
even as grief trembled beneath the skin.

Yet, they have also built and burned,
etched names upon stone
only for the tides to claim them,
planted hope in barren fields
while pulling the weeds of regret.

These hands—
they are the architects of tenderness,
calloused with sacrifice,
marked by toil and time,
veined with the ink of ancestors
who wrote their love in silent gestures.

And still, they reach—
for the light that flickers in the dark,
for the child who carries tomorrow,
for the dreams that slip between fingers
but never truly fade.

In their artistry, they sculpt moments,
turning silence into song,
shadows into warmth,
scars into scripture.

So she lifts the child,
his fingers curling into hers,
his breath against her shoulder—
a whisper of all that remains.

And in that clasp,
in the quiet certainty of touch,
the memory of hands endures—
a language beyond time,
a promise never lost.