The easy path is a thief of the soul,
A silent theft in the sun-dappled grass.
It leaves the spirit hollow, unrefined and whole,
Watching the shadows of greatness pass.
But the mountain does not apologize for its height,
Nor the sea for the weight of its deep;
They are the flint that strikes the spark to light
The promises the cowardly cannot keep.
The greater the difficulty, the more glory in surmounting it.
Do not pray for a wind that favors the sail,
Or a sea that forgets how to roar.
The wood is seasoned by the teeth of the gale,
And the heart is defined by the war.
For what is a triumph if bought for a grain?
A shallow cup, a fleeting, ghost-like prize.
True gold is birthed in the furnace of pain,
Under the gaze of unblinking skies.
So let the narrow pass become a wall,
Let the winter sharpen its icy breath.
The height of the rise is measured by the fall,
And the life of the deed by its brush with death.
Stand unapologetic in the crushing weight,
Let the struggle be the altar where you’re made;
For glory is not a gift from fickle fate,
But a debt that only the brave have paid.