In The Heart Of The Forge

We want to believe…
That the suffering is not meaningless,
That there’s a reason for the pain.
So we hope
That the story is not a tragic one,
That the fire is here to purify the gold,
That the potter is removing stones from the mould.
We want to believe
That one day a story of victory will be told.

We sit in the silence of our bruises,
Cradling wounds as if they were
Seeds of a future harvest.
Whispered prayers rise like smoke,
Curling in the air, reaching for a heaven
We sometimes doubt,
Yet, still, we pray.

In the heart of the forge, we feel the heat,
And in the grip of the unknown,
We search for meaning in the sparks,
Wondering if each flare of light
Is a glimpse of the divine,
Or just another flicker before the dark.

We want to believe
In the alchemy of agony,
That each tear shed
Is an offering,
Each cry a hymn,
Each scar a sacred script
Written on the parchment of our skin,
Etching tales of resilience,
Of fortitude, of becoming.

In the stillness of midnight,
When shadows dance with fears,
We hold tight to the thread of hope,
A lifeline spun from dreams and promises,
Believing that dawn will break,
And with it, revelation,
The unveiling of purpose,
The dawn of a day
Where sorrow bows to joy,
And we rise from the ashes,
Not as we were,
But as we were meant to be.

We walk through valleys
Shadowed by doubt,
Climbing mountains of despair,
Our breath heavy with the weight
Of unanswered questions,
Our steps faltering, yet forward,
Driven by a whisper,
A whisper that says,
“Keep going.”

We want to believe
That the blood of our battles
Waters the fields of tomorrow,
That our brokenness is but a prelude
To the symphony of wholeness,
That the chaos of our now
Will birth the cosmos of our destiny.

In the weaving of our days,
Threads of sorrow and joy intertwine,
Creating a tapestry unseen,
Each moment a stitch,
Each heartbeat a rhythm,
Each breath a promise
That life, in all its mystery,
In all its complexity,
Is forging something beautiful,
Something true.

We find strength
In the stories of the ancients,
Those who walked before us,
Whose footprints we follow,
Whose voices echo in our bones,
Telling us that suffering
Is but a season,
A necessary passage
Through which we emerge,
Refined, redefined, renewed.

So we gather our fragments,
Holding them close,
Knowing that even in pieces,
We are whole,
That even in the night,
We carry the dawn,
That even in our doubt,
We carry belief.

We want to believe,
And in our wanting,
We find the courage to hope,
To love, to dream,
To rise,
To write our stories
With ink made from tears,
With pages pressed from pain,
Knowing that the book of our lives
Is not a tragedy,
But an epic,
Each chapter a testament
To the fire that purifies,
To the potter that shapes,
To the journey that transforms.

We want to believe,
And in that belief,
We become.