Alma They carried no banners, only bread. No thunder, only water cupped in their hands. No conquest, only the pulse of compassion moving across the sea. Yet the horizon closed, turning them back into silence. On the waiting shore, children learn hunger as their first song, mothers cradle shadows, fathers vanish into dust. Still the soul endures. It hides in the hollow bowl, in the unlit lamp, in the name whispered over and over: Alma, Alma, Alma. And though gates are fastened and voices pressed down, the soul rises— in every hand that reaches, in every tear that falls, in every boat that drifts forward despite the weight of refusal. One day the waters will open, one day the song will be heard, and love will arrive, not as a guest, but as home. And until that day, we will keep singing— a low, unending song, so that even when the world cannot hear, we will sing it still in our own hearts, in our own soul, Alma.
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