We rise not with thunder, but whispers of will,
Through valleys of silence, up war-beaten hills.
No crown is bestowed without blood in the dust,
No triumph is earned without bold, bitter trust.
The blade may be heavy, the armor may crack,
But still we press forward, no dream looking back.
For battles are many some loud, some unseen,
Some fought in the soul, where the wounds stay unclean.
Yet still we keep swinging, with fire in our chest,
Not seeking to conquer, but striving to best
The limits, the doubts, the storms in our head
To dance with the living, not kneel to the dread.
And when the last echo of war starts to fade,
We’ll stand on the ashes of fears we unmade.
No boast in our voice, just peace in our breath—
For we’ve wrestled with life, and we’ve triumphed through death.
So raise not your sword, but the strength in your stare
The battle was won by the will to still care.
