There are days when the soul grows weary,
where the sun hides behind the mist,
each step, a stone that moves forward,
a constant struggle, a shadow that overwhelms.
Dreams are distant echoes,
whispers fading in the wind,
and the horizon, with its hands,
feels so far away, a cruel torment.
The mountain rises, giant and cold,
each step, a stolen breath,
hope becomes a melody,
that sounds distant, a forgotten song.
For there are grey days, I know,
but the sun will also rise,
and I will find in every step, the faith
That the mountains have their role.