Beneath the quiet surface of the soul,
where still waters once held restless storms,
there lies a world untouched by noise—
a place where time slows its hurried pace,
and every breath is measured, soft, and deep.
Here, the shadows fold into themselves,
no longer sharp but gently rounded,
like river stones worn smooth by patient tides.
The echoes of old conflicts fade to whispers,
and even memories learn to rest without weight.
It is here that wounds begin their healing,
not with frantic haste, but steady kindness—
a balm poured slowly, soaking through the cracks,
until the broken parts remember how to breathe,
and the heart reclaims its ancient calm.
Beneath this quiet surface,
hope is neither loud nor urgent—
it is a faint light glowing steadily,
guiding us home through the lingering dusk,
to the stillness we once lost and now find again.
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