The earth is worn beneath cautious steps,
a path carved by hope and hunger.
Branches claw at the skin,
but they cannot turn the soul back.

Every rustle in the dark
holds the weight of decision,
to move,to breathe,to wait.
Silence becomes a kind of prayer.

The stars do not speak,
but they guide.
Even the moon,
half-hidden behind clouds,
seems to understand.

Footsteps echo behind
but are swallowed by the wind.
You carry stories in your blood,
names whispered,
homes burned into memory.

There is no map.
Only the pull forward,
like a tide refusing to recede.

Some trails are marked in footprints.
Others are felt
in the thundering of the heart.

And freedom,
is not a gate swung open.
It is the moment you keep walking
even when the night
says stop.