Beneath the surface of what we call sane,
A river of sorrow winds under our pain.
Invisible fractures, we carry unseen,
In a world that forgets what suffering means.

What is trauma but memory etched in the soul,
A fracture in wholeness, a part from the whole?
The body remembers what language forgets,
In the dance of the atoms, the pain still begets.

We are not just ourselves, but the echo of all—
The ancestors’ longing, the culture’s soft thrall.
Their stories move through us, both frost and flame,
Old griefs and lost hopes that whisper our name.

Each illness, a message inscribed in the flesh,
A cipher from spirits where boundaries mesh.
Disease is the signal of balance undone,
A mirror reflecting what we cannot outrun.

We inherit the burdens of centuries past,
The trauma of ages, the die that is cast.
Each ancestor lives within our blood—
All their dreams, their tears, their sacred mud.

We are currents of being, not islands apart,
Each life interwoven with body and heart.
To touch this pure essence, this infinite grace,
Is to find belonging’s eternal embrace.

In the luminous web where all being is spun,
We remember: our healing is woven as one.
Surrender to the current that carries you home,
And find shelter from the rage of life’s bitter storm.

Let fractures within you be cracks for the dawn,
Where the treasure of kindness and sorrow are drawn.
Let your scars be the script where new stories are born,
And let love be the sunlight that mends and transforms.