The Paradox and Beauty of the Human Soul

Isn’t it astonishing,

that flesh so soft, and hearts so pierced by love,

should stand upright at all?

That we, who weep at birdsong,

and bruise at a word, not meant to wound,

still find ourselves laughing in gardens,

and lifting our eyes to stars?

 

Each of us,

a child born without consent,

fragile in our first breath,

and yet vast - vast enough to hold

a lifetime of memory,

of longing,

of praise.

 

The soul, they say, is a candle.

But no candle lasts this long.

The soul is a bell.

But no bell sings with such ache and such joy.

 

Perhaps the soul is a bridge,

arching between birth and mystery,

between the summer sun and the deep unknown.

And across it walks every grief we have carried,

and every grace we’ve dared to hope.

 

We are, each of us,

a radiant paradox:

as mortal as grass,

as eternal as firelight.

 

And on this day,

when the sun lingers long,

and the world leans golden with light,

may we remember:

To live is not only to survive.

It is to blaze, to bloom,

to wonder,

and to keep becoming.