wounded healer

An embodiment of virtue that she is
And of beauty that never fades;

The hands scarred by the knife of olden times

Is the selfsame hands that mend the broken and injured.

Oft she travels incognito

Set off on a trip along the road less traveled;

To somewhere, she leaves neither fame nor riches

But footprints indelibly marked on the faithful’s land.

Countless times has she braved storms-

Though many a storm have maimed her paltry frame;

She persisted against the course of the wind,

She persisted for the love of her calling.

Then came her calling that preaches of a promise,

That restores ruined walls and streets without dwellings.

Her untiring hands, her indomitable spirit

Won the hearts of the seekers of love and justice.

But one may ask in utter wonderment

How did she come to be

A healer who takes pride in nothing

and walks with an air of mystery?

Perhaps the mystery that the healer reveals

Is naught but the affliction she’s endured.

For who else can speak to the wounds of the afflicted

But the healer who is wounded herself.

lordiaz_05@yahoo.com