Though my hands falter, and memory fades, though silence mocks what time once praised— still I press on, a nameless mason, laying truths I carved from shame.
I raise no banner, claim no throne, but whisper into winds unknown: “If not for glory, then for grace, that one may rise from this same place.”
Let ashes speak where tongues fall still, and let these stones outlast my will. For in the dusk of spent desire, a single spark can birth a fire.
So let these hands, though bruised and worn, etch quiet hope in break of morn. Not for acclaim, nor out of pride, but so one day, someone might find—
among the ashes, amid the dust, a trace of love, a seed of trust. That though I faltered, I still gave, and from these ruins, left something brave.