The Echo We Leave Behind

The seed never sees the flower,
yet still, it breaks the earth,
presses through the weight of stone,
believing in a sun it has never touched.
The wind carries no flag,
no border, no name--
only whispers of what could be,
soft as rain on weary hands,
loud as roots beneath the frost.
We do not walk the same roads,
nor speak in the same tongue,
but we labor in the same fields,
turning soil for those who will come after.
Some build walls, but others plant gardens,
some hear the noise of division,
but others listen for the song.
And if we listen—truly listen--
we will hear it rising,
not in anger, not in fear,
but in hands that reach instead of close,
in voices that soften instead of harden,
in hearts that mend instead of break.
We may not see the harvest,
but let us plant as if we will.
Let us give what we may never receive,
build what we may never touch,
love beyond what we may ever know.
For long after we are gone,
when winter has melted into spring,
when the garden has grown beyond our sight,
it is not our names that will remain--
but the echo we leave behind.