Where the Cracks Let the Light In

They came from silence,

from days that forgot their names -

hands trembling, hearts chipped,

eyes full of thunder and rain.

They were not heroes.

Not saints, nor stories sung.

Just people with aching bones,

and lungs that still clung to breath.

They had been cracked

like teacups dropped too many times,

but still they caught the morning light

in the curves of their porcelain lines.

Each carried a shard -

of grief, of guilt, of what-if dreams.

Tucked in coat pockets,

woven in the seams.

One had lost a sister

to a river that swallowed sound.

One had lost themselves

and hadn’t yet been found.

Another wore their sorrow

like a patchwork cloak of ash.

Still, they walked - 

past the ruins, through the crash.

Some days they danced,

barefoot over broken glass.

Other days, they crawled,

letting the pain pass.

But always they moved,

like dawn crawling from night,

stitching their shadows

with threads of stubborn light.

They did not speak in sermons.

They didn’t roar or preach.

But in every step,

they taught what no hand could teach:

That breaking isn’t ending.

That sorrow doesn’t stall.

That falling is a kind of flight

if you dare to rise at all.

They left no monuments.

No flags were flown.

But flowers grew

in the cracks of their bones.

And one day, when you feel

like your sky might collapse - 

when the map disappears

and your feet lose their tracks -

Listen closely.

You might hear them in the wind - 

the ones who broke

and walked again.

Not because they were unbroken.

Not because they were strong.

But because walking,

even limping,

was its own kind of song.

-Reetu Verma