When roads twist away from your well-drawn maps,
And your sails tear in fortune’s traps,
When plans fall silent, like songs unsung,
And your name is drowned where it once was rung—
Hold together your scattered strings,
For strength is born from broken things.
When money sneers and power plays,
And truth gets lost in darker days,
Stand firm as the castles crumble slow,
The dust will clear, and you will grow.
Dreams don’t die with bricks that fall—
They rise again, higher than all.
Each stone thrown, each spiteful jest,
Becomes a piece of your fortress, blessed.
Not with marble or gilded dome,
But grit and grace—this is your home.
It’s not the gold that marks your climb,
But the hands that held you in their time.
The ones who stayed through winds and rains,
Who shared your fire, who felt your pains.
Let losses teach, let storms refine,
The climb is steep, but the path is mine.
For heights are scaled not just with might,
But with hearts that burn through darkest night.
So move, even slow, don’t break, don’t hide—
The journey is long, but you’re on the right side.
You are not alone, you’re not out of fight—
You’re building a world, and reaching your height.
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