Before he was Pontiff,
before the white robe and the bullet
and the balcony,
he was Karol-
a man walking beneath Polish skies,
writing in the quiet
where faith and flesh wrestled
like Jacob with the angel.

He did not write to be heard
but to remain whole.
His words rose
not from dogma,
but from mountains, from stone paths,
from the breath of workers
and the stillness of prayer.

Later,,they would call him John Paul ll.
He would carry the world
on trembling shoulders,
a shepherd crowned in solitude.

But the poet remained.
Behind the walls of Vatican marble,
the same voice whispered
verses shaped by sorrow and wonder.
Even as nations bent to his presence,
he bent to the page-
listening.

Not for applause.
Not for power.
But for the silence between words
where God might still be found.