Posted By:
Mohammad Reza Shokri Amiri
There are hands
that enter a ruined room
without asking
who was right.
They lift the fallen chair,
gather the glass,
set a cup upon the table
for someone still on the road.
No monument records this.
By evening,
the names of those hands
have disappeared.
Yet somewhere
a child sleeps beneath a repaired roof.
An old woman finds water
where yesterday there was dust.
A stranger discovers
a door left open
without being asked to knock.
Perhaps what endures
is not what we carve into stone,
but what passes quietly
from one human life
into another.
The finest gift
does not make a sound.
It leaves the hands empty
and the world
with one less burden.