We are made of grief, yet still we rise from pain.
The chain may bruise the wrist, but not the brain.
A song was born where labor wore the skin.
Still, in the dark, the pulse would not give in.
The soul was pressed by boots and smoke and fear.
Yet faint brave notes were taught to travel clear.
From camp-lit ashes came a witness, bare.
To say: we suffered, but we were still there.
The mind may bend when power steals the day.
But something deep still keeps a narrow way.
A child may kneel in dust and learn the rule.
Yet hope can bloom where misery plays the fool.
Thoreau once saw a life too fast, too thin.
And asked what living means beneath the din.
He called us back to truth, to less, to see.
That what we are lives best in honesty.
So history speaks through ruin, scar, and flame.
And names the wound, yet does not praise the shame.
The blues remember hands that had to bare.
The heart made music from the load of care.
And silence too can testify and say.
A human being still will seek a way.
Not every cage can finish what it starts.
Some light remains unbroken in our hearts.
We learn the world can wound beyond repair.
Yet still we meet each dawn with breath and prayer.
The final truth is hard, but plain to hold.
We are not made of ash; we are made bold.
Humanity endures where sorrow fell.
And turns its wounds into a living tell.
…
DCG
