Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
The rain arrives like whispered grace,
A gentle hymn from sky to ground.
It blesses dust with living touch,
Where silence once was all around.
Leaves lift their faces to the fall,
Emerald veins begin to shine.
Each droplet writes a promise soft
Along the edges of the vine.
Roots awaken deep below,
Drinking hope in quiet trust.
Seeds remember who they are,
And rise from darkness, clay, and dust.
The earth exhales, relieved, renewed,
Cracked soil healed by silver streams.
Rain stitches life into the land,
Mending hunger’s broken seams.
For farmers, rain is more than water,
It is tomorrow’s bread and prayer.
It decides the weight of the harvest,
The difference between despair and care.
They watch the sky with folded hands,
Reading clouds like sacred text.
Each rainfall answers patient work,
And shapes what seasons offer next.
Where rain falls true, the world stands strong—
Green speaks louder than decay.
A blessing poured without condition,
Teaching life how to stay.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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