Within the shadow well, where fears abide, The human heart, in drought, begins to slide. A withered garden waits where courage wanes, Yet from this hollow, strength remains. Each droplet tells a story, faint yet pure, A mirror to the soul, its truths endure. But low, when waters rise to drown the whole, The flood conceals the compass of the soul. For life is measured not by drought nor flood, But by the balance struck in flesh and blood. Through tears we weave, from sorrow's thread, our lore, And find the boundless spirit at its core. Through tempest howl and silence wide as death, We carve our path with hope’s unyielding breath.