The Architect of Scars

 

The Architect of Scars

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The tree does not become shade

until a burning sun stands overhead.

The stars do not become guides

until the night surrenders to darkness.

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The mountain does not boast of its height

until the valley is cast in its shadow.

The river does not sing of its strength

until it meets the stone that would stop it.

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We are built of what we have weathered;

the glass is forged in the furnace,

the diamond is born of the weight

that the earth refused to lift.

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Forgiveness is a word without a voice

until the wrong has been done.

Patience is a ghost in the hallway

until the clock refuses to strike the hour.

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We look for the sunrise

not because dawn is beautiful,

but because the cold has settled in our bones.

We reach for the hand

not because we are weak,

but because the path has grown too narrow

to walk alone.

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So let the wind howl against the timber;

it is only then the roots learn to grip.

Let the fire burn the field to ash;

it is only then the soil remembers how to bloom.

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Let the wound leave its script upon the skin;

some truths are written only as scars.

Let sorrow carve its chambers in the heart;

it is only then compassion learns to dwell there.

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For the heart is a closed room

until grief arrives with the key,

and the soul is a silent bell

until the hammer of the world

gives it a reason to ring.

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A tree becomes mercy

because the sun is cruel.

A star becomes direction

because the night is deep.

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And perhaps we become human

not in the absence of suffering,

but in the sacred shaping of it-

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for the wound is not always ruin.

Sometimes

it is the architect.