She does not speak aloud, not here. This is the place where silence answers back. The grass moves like water— ripples of praise without a mouth, but full of memory.
She walks barefoot, open-palmed, hands lifted in the hush of morning light, not for ritual, not for prayer, but because that is the posture her soul has always longed for.
The wind does not resist her here. It circles her ribs and says,
"You are not here to carry anything anymore."
And so she dances, not to forget, but to remember rightly.
Each step a release. Each breath, a forgiveness. Each turn, a letting-go of a thousand unspoken inheritances she never asked to receive.
The grass bows gently as she moves— to the child she was, to the woman she became, to the fierce stillness that remained when the world could not hold her.
Then he comes— not a man, but something older, truer. A horse, many hands tall, his mane braided by wind, his coat the color of evening stone.
He does not run. He simply appears, like a truth that was always waiting just beyond the edge of what she dared to hope for.
He lowers his head, presses his warm forehead against her tear-washed cheek, and something ancient inside her quiets.
She does not ride him. She walks beside him, her fingers woven into his mane, like roots learning the shape of soil for the first time.
And she knows— this is what safety feels like. Not absence of pain, but presence of witness.
Not every love needs to break you to be real. Some love simply comes when you're ready to remember your own name.
The grasslands will remain. But now, they echo with her laughter. And the wind—
it carries her name like a hymn that never forgot how to rise.
hold on to your dream of this dream..
remember every-thing
https://youtu.be/fqCGidfNG0M
#Glory❤️