They move like moonlit letters
wandering a silver scroll;
each step a quiet tremor,
a sealed and glowing soul.
They pass through crowded weather
like lullabies in storms;
their calm rearranges thunder,
softening all its forms.
They leave the race behind
as rivers slip from lines;
not out of sharp refusal,
but how true freedom shines.
They bloom like hidden metaphors
no gardener ever planned;
their courage lifts like incense
unseen but close at hand.
They teach that whispered strength
outlives the world’s loud roar;
that kindness held with patience
becomes a shaping shore.
To be a rebel, gentle,
is to open what’s closed tight;
to hold truth like a lantern
held steady in the night.
You shift the world with softness,
you rise yet leave no trace;
a secret in the margins,
a quiet, steadfast grace.
Where such souls walk, rebellion
moves slow and warm and true—
a light that asks for nothing,
yet changes all it moves through.