In quiet hours, beneath the stars,
I trace the path to where you are—
A dream born in a whispered vow,
A child who stitched with thread and now
Learns hearts by ink and sleepless fire,
Each page a step, each step, desire.
The nights are long. The mind, a storm
Of questions formed in textbook form.
The spine of Atlas bent with weight—
Of purpose, passion, fear, and fate.
And yet I rise, despite the ache,
To chase the change I long to make.
A thousand hands I hope to heal,
To listen deep, to truly feel.
Not just the wound, but what is near—
The stories wrapped in every tear.
A healer’s touch, both firm and kind,
Begins not in the hand, but mind.
The gates seem distant, high, and closed,
Each letter sent, each hope exposed.
But still I walk this winding trail,
Through every setback, every fail.
Not for prestige, nor for acclaim—
But for the oath, not just the name.
For in the chase, I’ve come to see
The one I’m meant and made to be.
So if I fall, I’ll rise once more—
White coats still gleaming at the door.
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