It is not the wind that moves,
not the earth that shifts,
not the river breaking its banks.
It is the line.
Straight, unyielding,
though the ground beneath it sways.
It does not ask if the hill is steep,
if the night is long,
if the body bends under its weight.
It does not pause for a voice behind it,
the call of a soft chair,
the hush of a closing door.
It is only forward.
And forward is the only path it knows.
