Bend, though the winds are harsh.
Carry the stones you did not make.
Silent the heart, though it rages long.
Life demands a surrender, bitter ache.
Each root grows where it is pressed.
Each star rests where the sky commands. To yield is life's whispered bitter creed. To stand, though not on chosen lands.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 2:30 AM UTC
Bend, though the winds are harsh.
Carry the stones you did not make.
Silent the heart, though it rages long.
Life demands a surrender, bitter ache.
Each root grows where it is pressed.
Each star rests where the sky commands. To yield is life's whispered bitter creed. To stand, though not on chosen lands.
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