Being swayed by the ocean of thoughts she knew, She missed the sorrow pulling through. Imperfect, yes — but still she seemed The quiet shape of a weathered dream. Amid a world of endless noise, She moved with grace, without a voice. Wrestling with emotions, torn, She gazed ahead, unsure, forlorn. She reached toward what felt like best, And overlooked life’s quiet rest. The little joys she once held dear Had faded slow, then disappeared. Then, gently, time began to still. She stood — not broken, but with will. And in that hush, beyond the din, A warm light stirred — and whispered: Begin.