The unnamed hand

They ask me what I believe,

and I tell them, I don’t know.

But inside, I wonder

is there a storyteller?

A voice that wrote the stars?

 

Once, a child walked in the woods,

hoping to hear the trees speak.

The wind answered softly,

but no words came.

Still, the child felt less alone.

 

I don’t follow the maps of men,

but I hold their stories close

like Krishna’s flute,

or the comfort of a whispered prayer

when the night feels too long.

 

A traveler sees footprints in the sand

and imagines a guide,

though none is there.

Is it foolish to believe?

Or is it the heart’s way of hoping?

 

When I fall to my knees,

I call to something unseen

not gods in temples,

but the silence between stars.

And sometimes, the silence feels alive.

 

A potter shapes clay

without giving it a name.

If there is a hand behind it all,

perhaps it is the same

no need for rules or labels,

just the art of creation itself.

 

I walk through questions,

not searching for answers,

but listening for stories

parables in the quiet,

where faith is not a fortress,

but an open door.