You ask of strength—
but I say to you,
strength lies not in the sound of the blow,
but in the stillness of the hand that knows where to rest.

The razor is sharp,
but its sharpness is not meant to divide the earth—
it was shaped to move tenderly across the skin,
to separate what clings,
and leave no wound behind.

The axe is strong,
but its strength was not given to shape the face of another—
it was forged to part the stubborn wood,
to fell what has forgotten how to bow.

Each holds a purpose,
each walks in its own shadow,
and both forget themselves
when asked to do the other’s work.

So it is with us.

The heart that listens
was not made to lead with noise.
The soul that breaks ground
was not born to walk in silence.

And yet—
we envy one another,
we trade our gifts like coins,
and we wear the masks of tools
that do not fit the shape of our spirit.

But the apple tree does not question the walnut for its hardened shell,
nor does the river question the flame
for not knowing how to flow.

Each is sacred
by the truth of its design.

And when you see one
whose step is slower than yours,
whose hands tremble beneath a lighter load,
do not let pride fill your gaze.
Instead, remember:

The dust upon their feet
may carry the memory of mountains
you were never asked to climb.

We are all instruments
in the hand of the unseen.
Let the razor cut with grace.
Let the axe fall with honor.
And let your soul
be faithful to the shape
the Eternal carved into it
before you were given a name.