Leave the glass and the silver screen, To stand where the wilder winds are seen. That mark on your hand is a map of the fight, A signature written in healing light. Like knots in the oak or grain in the wood, Your scars show the strength of a life where you stood. Each line on your face is a trail of the sun, A story of all that your spirit has done. You are no statue, white and still, But fire and pulse and a sovereign will. So walk with your history out in the air, Un-broken and beautifully bare.