SHE RISES

She walks through fire, yet bears no ash,

With silent strength and steady sash.

The world may bend, the winds may roar,

Still she stands—then rises more.

Her tears are rivers—soft, yet deep,

Where dreams and promises dare sleep.

She weaves her pain into a song,

And sings it bold, and sings it strong.

With hands that heal, with hearts that fight,

She holds the dark, then births the light.

Not made of glass, but steel and grace,

The battle carved upon her face.

She bends, but never breaks apart

The thunder echoes in her heart.

A mountain moving through the storm,

A thousand voices in one form.

So here’s to her—the quiet flame,

Who burns with love, and not for fame.

The world may try to write her end—

But she begins. And then, again.

Dance like no one is watching.

There is almost nothing that compares to the freedom of your spirit and body like dance.

We have murdered sleep.” Not the kind you get at night—but the kind that rests the soul through knowledge, story, and thought. In our chase for quick entertainment and instant gratification, we’ve killed the quiet power of reading. And our minds are no longer at peace.

“You have murdered sleep” Macbeth (Act 2, Scene 2). It symbolizes the killing of peace, innocence, and the conscience itself.