_{Si eres de habla hispana, esta versión es para ti 👉 Español.}

The Grain of Our Soul

When the earth fractured and the concrete failed,
no siren called the heroes to the street.
They rose from the dust, unbidden and unbowed,
carrying the weight of a nation on their backs.

They say we are carved from a different wood—
not the kind that rots in the damp of neglect,
but a timber hardened by twenty-four years of storms,
a grain that grows tighter the more it is pressed.

See the citizen, the common man,
with a sledgehammer in hand and a brother in mind.
No gold on his shoulders, only the grit of the ruins,
digging through silence to find a pulse, a breath, a life.

Kitchens turned into sanctuaries,
where the hungry fed the weary.
While the halls of power stood cold and hollow,
the hands of the poor filled the hospital shelves,
bringing the medicine that silence forgot to provide.

It is a strange and beautiful alchemy:
To have so little and give it all away.
To be abandoned by the state,
yet to become a fortress for each other.

Look closely at these hands—calloused and stained.
This is the Venezuelan spirit:
A bridge built where the ground gave way,
A wood that does not splinter under the weight of the world,
But holds,
And heals,
And rises.

I would like to invite my poet friend Hive account@silher. Also, thanks to Hive account@moeknows for visiting my post.

Dedicated to all those poets who contribute, ** day by day**, to make our planet a better world.