By Rado Gatchalian
Even the brave walks slowly
On a mountain where rocks
Are a symbol of timeless glory.
When we are at the altar of eminent grace
We submit not because we are weak
But because we recognise a power
greater than ourselves.
But even the weak steps a higher ladder
On a field where grasses and wild flowers
Are living testimony of inner strength.
When we kiss such immutable beauty
Every form of being becomes a constant reminder
That we suffer not because we are fragile
But we are given the opportunity to redeem ourselves.
Whether we run like a tiger
Or crawl like a wandering snail:
The exact measure of winning
Is not decided by who comes first
But who endures pain with such grace
That even a mountain of great might
Bows to a warrior whose power is in the heart.
