They never see the climb —
the way your hands bled
against the stone,
how your breath broke
in the thin air of doubt,
how the wind whispered, Turn back —
and still, you rose.
They only see you standing here,
bathed in the sun of your arrival,
but you remember the shadows —
the nights stitched with fear,
the weight of every almost-fall,
the ache of carrying dreams
too heavy to hold…
and yet, you held them.
And now — look at you.
Crowned in the fire of your own making,
the echoes of every “you can’t”
burned down to silence.
The view is wide, endless, yours —
and the air tastes like freedom.
So stand tall.
Let them see what persistence becomes.
Let them hear the anthem of your footsteps
on the path they said did not exist.
You are the storm that kept moving.
The light that kept rising.
The mountain that grew wings.
English