The Currency of the Soul

My brothers,
my sisters,
tell me this:
To win…
did you forget
what the trophy even was?

That gold,
yes,
that shimmer in the marrow of your longing,
it was never meant
to be worn.

It mirrored
its shadow twin:
metal,
cold weight
melted into bars,
used not to free,
but to build dream-castles
on graves of light.

You forged kingdoms
from bricks
you should have burned
for fire.

You chased gold
for your pockets,
when it was always meant
for your soul.

Not copper,
not coins,
not empire,
not applause,
but the alchemy of spirit:

The fire
that turns pain
into clarity.
That turns hunger
into communion.
That turns longing
into love.

So remember,
the real gold
was never outside you.

It did not need to shine
to be divine.

It only needed
to be given
to become
real.