Crucible

I am no panacea,
nor do I claim to be.

I am only a voice
rising like a small fire
on the other side of the bridge,
a place where the stones
still remember the weight
of those who crossed before you.

Do not mistake my silence
for wisdom,
or my warmth
for a promised cure.

I am nothing but the wind
that leans close
when your ribs tremble,
the echo that returns
your own question
in a different color.

If you come my way,
you do not choose me,
you choose you,
the you that has been calling
from deep inside the dust,
the you that has waited
like a slow dawn
unfurling behind the fog.

And I,
on this far side,
simply hold out my hands
not to save you,
but to remind you
that you were burning
long before you arrived.