The Quiet Path

Blessed are they who dream in whispers, 

whose wishes root like seeds beneath the snow— 

who wake one morning to find themselves 

standing in the garden they once imagined, 

never knowing when the crossing came, 

when longing became living, 

when the map became the road.

They were walking all along 

toward what they thought was distant: 

each small step a stitch 

in the fabric of arriving, 

each choice a gentle current 

pulling them like rivers to the sea.

Fortune favours not the ones who storm the gates, 

but those whose footprints fill with flowers, 

who discovers at the end 

they were always home, 

that destiny was never a destination 

but the path itself, 

worn smooth by dreaming feet.

© 𝑴𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒆