I feel the world ache.
Not only mine, all of it.
The breath of the homeless dog,
the dying tree,
the human who forgot how to be kind.
Even nature kills with cruel intent.
Life devours life,
and we are told to call it beautiful.
I see it,
this endless swing of the pendulum,
where every rise already contains its fall,
where every birth hums softly
with the promise of loss.
It’s too much to hold,
yet I hold it still,
the sorrow of the earth,
the quiet grief of God
watching his own creation fade.
And still, somehow,
I love it.
To love something so dearly,
knowing it must fall,
that is the sacred wound,
the proof we are alive,
the price of being human.
So let me stand here,
eyes open,
heart unarmoured,
and let the world pass through me
like rain through open hands.
For even sorrow,
in its deepest silence,
is holy.
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 4:05 AM UTC
I feel the world ache.
Not only mine, all of it.
The breath of the homeless dog,
the dying tree,
the human who forgot how to be kind.
Even nature kills with cruel intent.
Life devours life,
and we are told to call it beautiful.
I see it,
this endless swing of the pendulum,
where every rise already contains its fall,
where every birth hums softly
with the promise of loss.
It’s too much to hold,
yet I hold it still,
the sorrow of the earth,
the quiet grief of God
watching his own creation fade.
And still, somehow,
I love it.
To love something so dearly,
knowing it must fall,
that is the sacred wound,
the proof we are alive,
the price of being human.
So let me stand here,
eyes open,
heart unarmoured,
and let the world pass through me
like rain through open hands.
For even sorrow,
in its deepest silence,
is holy.
Request permission to use this poem