II. THE CALLING
I watched them fell the apple tree that grew with me—
twenty-five rings laid bare,
like the ribs of a prophet.
I watched them fell the apple tree that grew with me—
twenty-five rings laid bare,
like the ribs of a prophet.
I watched them fell the apple tree that grew with me—
twenty-five rings laid bare,
like the ribs of a prophet.
It was planted in the year of my birth,
and together we reached toward the light,
unknowing.
It was planted in the year of my birth,
and together we reached toward the light,
unknowing.
It was planted in the year of my birth,
and together we reached toward the light,
unknowing.
I once ran beneath its blossom-white crown,
my laughter rising
as petals fell—blessings unasked for.
I once ran beneath its blossom-white crown,
my laughter rising
as petals fell—blessings unasked for.
I once ran beneath its blossom-white crown,
my laughter rising
as petals fell—blessings unasked for.
But innocence is no armor against calling.
But innocence is no armor against calling.
But innocence is no armor against calling.
Now I tread that same meadow
shod in blood,
and those who followed me
lie beneath the roots of joy.
Now I tread that same meadow
shod in blood,
and those who followed me
lie beneath the roots of joy.
Now I tread that same meadow
shod in blood,
and those who followed me
lie beneath the roots of joy.
The wind, once fragrant with spring,
now groans with the fallen—
and each step I take
resounds with what cannot be redeemed.
The wind, once fragrant with spring,
now groans with the fallen—
and each step I take
resounds with what cannot be redeemed.
The wind, once fragrant with spring,
now groans with the fallen—
and each step I take
resounds with what cannot be redeemed.
You once said we are born with a gift—
the sacred power to choose.
You once said we are born with a gift—
the sacred power to choose.
You once said we are born with a gift—
the sacred power to choose.
But I ask you now:
was the path ever mine,
or carved by the hands that held the chain?
But I ask you now:
was the path ever mine,
or carved by the hands that held the chain?
But I ask you now:
was the path ever mine,
or carved by the hands that held the chain?
I broke it.
I woke from the dream.
I broke it.
I woke from the dream.
I broke it.
I woke from the dream.
But what led me there—
was it will,
or was I shaped for this yoke
by you,
or by those who spoke in your name?
But what led me there—
was it will,
or was I shaped for this yoke
by you,
or by those who spoke in your name?
But what led me there—
was it will,
or was I shaped for this yoke
by you,
or by those who spoke in your name?
And if the choice was ever truly mine—
why does it feel inherited,
not chosen?
And if the choice was ever truly mine—
why does it feel inherited,
not chosen?
And if the choice was ever truly mine—
why does it feel inherited,
not chosen?
It matters no longer.
It matters no longer.
It matters no longer.
I knew the answer the moment you spoke—
not when I doubted my strength,
but when I questioned the path.
I knew the answer the moment you spoke—
not when I doubted my strength,
but when I questioned the path.
I knew the answer the moment you spoke—
not when I doubted my strength,
but when I questioned the path.
I led them to their deaths—my voice, their guide,
beneath the banner of freedom,
asking if suffering would ever loosen its grip.
I led them to their deaths—my voice, their guide,
beneath the banner of freedom,
asking if suffering would ever loosen its grip.
I led them to their deaths—my voice, their guide,
beneath the banner of freedom,
asking if suffering would ever loosen its grip.
And you said:
strength in this life,
joy in the next.
And you said:
strength in this life,
joy in the next.
And you said:
strength in this life,
joy in the next.
Then I knew—
fate was written
long before I stood to speak.
Then I knew—
fate was written
long before I stood to speak.
Then I knew—
fate was written
long before I stood to speak.
Like Moses,
I was called to lead my people through the wilderness,
to see the apple blossoms rise again—
but never to set foot in that untouched garden
where my laughter once bloomed.
Like Moses,
I was called to lead my people through the wilderness,
to see the apple blossoms rise again—
but never to set foot in that untouched garden
where my laughter once bloomed.
Like Moses,
I was called to lead my people through the wilderness,
to see the apple blossoms rise again—
but never to set foot in that untouched garden
where my laughter once bloomed.
I returned to the apple tree—
its rings laid bare beneath the sky,
like a testament I was never meant to read.
I returned to the apple tree—
its rings laid bare beneath the sky,
like a testament I was never meant to read.
I returned to the apple tree—
its rings laid bare beneath the sky,
like a testament I was never meant to read.
Each one
a measure of time,
a memory buried beneath the bark.
Each one
a measure of time,
a memory buried beneath the bark.
Each one
a measure of time,
a memory buried beneath the bark.
One for the boy who dreamed of the moon,
who believed he could hold its light in his hands.
One for the boy who dreamed of the moon,
who believed he could hold its light in his hands.
One for the boy who dreamed of the moon,
who believed he could hold its light in his hands.
One for the boy who chased the birds,
arms outstretched,
never knowing they’d carry him too far.
One for the boy who chased the birds,
arms outstretched,
never knowing they’d carry him too far.
One for the boy who chased the birds,
arms outstretched,
never knowing they’d carry him too far.
One for the boy who was chosen for the crown—
and with it,
the silence that followed.
One for the boy who was chosen for the crown—
and with it,
the silence that followed.
One for the boy who was chosen for the crown—
and with it,
the silence that followed.