We are cracked earth, parched lips,
waiting for more than empty promises.
We are the hollow ache of longing,
the dry wind carrying whispers of hope.
Somewhere, a stream dreams of reaching
its people, carving rivers where none existed,
turning dust into dawn, despair to bloom.
A leader isn’t the roar of thunder,
but the soft persistence of rain.
They are the shadow cast by a towering
rock, steady and unyielding, resting
bones weary from running.
We need someone who kneels before
the altar of humanity, who bends to
carry the weight others cannot.
A leader whose strength is quiet
but never brittle, whose hands work
not for applause, but for the kind
of change that heals, that stays,
that feeds the roots beneath the soil.