Now it is a lullaby. Now it is a war cry. Now it is the sound of a seed splitting open in the dark, not knowing if it will ever see the sun, but splitting open anyway because that is what seeds do.
Araya.
Araya. Araya.
Araya.
And in that exhaustion—in that naked, humiliating, beautiful honesty—the word becomes a bed. Not a bed of roses. A bed of gravel. But you lie down anyway. Because even gravel is ground. Even gravel holds you.
Now walk forward. The road is not fixed. The map is written in water. But you have the incantation. You have the crack in your voice that makes you real.
