#
There is a soul
who stands where the bridge leans over the river,
where old nights once gathered
like unanswered prayers.
The water stirs with memory..
not to accuse,
but to speak of the distance traveled
and the shadows overcome.
For the heart is not the heart of yesterday.
It has learned the weight of truth,
the sound of strength
that does not meander.
And beside this soul
moves a quiet presence,
soft as the breath before dawn,
steadfast as a lamp
refusing to bow to the wind.
The waters lower their gaze.
They know this kind of courage..
born not from fire,
but from endurance,
from choosing what is pure
even when the world is unkind.
No oath is spoken.
No name, carved into stone.
Yet the river understands:
*storms cannot reclaim
a heart that has recognized
what is worthy.*
And so it is whispered
in the unseen places..
when true substance draws near,
the troubled waters
release their need for old storms,
and become still again.
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Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 6:01 AM UTC
#
There is a soul
who stands where the bridge leans over the river,
where old nights once gathered
like unanswered prayers.
The water stirs with memory..
not to accuse,
but to speak of the distance traveled
and the shadows overcome.
For the heart is not the heart of yesterday.
It has learned the weight of truth,
the sound of strength
that does not meander.
And beside this soul
moves a quiet presence,
soft as the breath before dawn,
steadfast as a lamp
refusing to bow to the wind.
The waters lower their gaze.
They know this kind of courage..
born not from fire,
but from endurance,
from choosing what is pure
even when the world is unkind.
No oath is spoken.
No name, carved into stone.
Yet the river understands:
*storms cannot reclaim
a heart that has recognized
what is worthy.*
And so it is whispered
in the unseen places..
when true substance draws near,
the troubled waters
release their need for old storms,
and become still again.
#
There are seasons in a soul when the waters rise again..
not to drown, but to remind.
The old currents return with their familiar pull,
asking who you are now,
and whether the heart still fears
what once claimed it.
But there is a moment..
quiet, nearly invisible..
when a person stands on the bridge
and realizes they are no longer facing the river alone.
Something steady has taken its place beside them,
something made of truth, and substance,
and the kind of strength that does not need to speak its name.
And in that stillness,
the waters themselves begin to soften..
as if they remember how healing begins..
not with erasing the past,
but with carrying it gently back to the Source
to be washed clean.
It is the same mercy Peter Gabriel wrote of,
the same ancient invitation:
to be lifted, to be held,
to let the river take what the heart was never meant to carry alone.
--And in that spirit,
these words belong here:
"River, river, carry me on.. "
https://youtu.be/WbK-UFF6heQ?si=4hS6xOlxkYRZnJ5E
<3