Blessed Imelda

It’s been months since I left the forest. I couldn’t stay. Not yet. Not when there’s so much to be done. The forest, as beautiful as it was, felt like a dream, a place of peace that I hadn’t earned. Imelda’s legacy, the gift she left behind, was more than just a sanctuary. It was a promise—a promise I had to honor, a promise I had to share with others.

The world still aches with the wounds of its past, and as much as I wanted to hide within the safety of the forest, I couldn’t. I had seen too much. I had been through too much. I had to guide others there—those who still had hope, those who still believed that something could be rebuilt from the ashes. I had to help them find their way.

I left the forest, with its shining leaves and its whispers of peace, and I traveled once again. But this time, I wasn’t alone. There were others—people who had heard whispers of the new world, who had heard the tale of Imelda’s sacrifice, and they followed me, trusting in the vision that had been planted in their hearts. I guided them, one by one, through the desolate lands, through the remnants of a broken world, until we reached the edge of the forest.

It wasn’t easy. The road was still hard, the wasteland still vast, and the shadows of the old world still lingered at the edges of our journey. But with each person I led to the forest, I felt a little lighter, a little closer to the world that Imelda had dreamed of. And as the years passed, more and more came—hungry souls, lost souls, all seeking something more than the despair that had once consumed them.

And with each new soul that arrived, the forest seemed to grow. It was as though the land itself was responding to the hope they brought with them. The trees stretched higher, their roots ran deeper, and the air grew richer with every step. The forest was alive, but more than that, it was becoming something more—something vast, something whole. A world within a world, a sanctuary that flourished with each new heart that entered.

I saw it in their eyes. They came with nothing but a shred of hope, a thread of belief that something could change. And slowly, very slowly, that belief grew in them. The forest became more than just a place; it became a symbol. A symbol of what could be, if we were willing to sacrifice, to believe, to fight for a future worth having.

But even now, I still hear her voice—Imelda’s voice—whispering through the trees, urging me on. “Lazarus, you can’t stop here. The world needs you. The world needs us all.”

And so, I continue. I carry her spirit with me as I walk through this new world. A world that is not yet whole, not yet perfect, but one that is no longer defined by the mistakes of the past. A world that is reborn, just as Imelda was.

I still haven’t found my peace. I don’t think I ever will. But that’s okay. Because in every step I take, I’m reminded that the world is still capable of change. It’s still capable of hope. And that’s enough to keep going.

So, I carry on. And somewhere, in the distance, I hear the laughter of children. They are the future. They are the hope that Imelda planted. And they will carry that hope forward, long after I’m gone. In her name. In her memory.

Blessed Imelda, your spirit lives on. In every heart. In every soul. In every step we take toward the future you dreamed of.

Children laugh where the wasteland once reigned, their joy a
gentle balm,
The rivers run clear, the trees stand tall—a resurrection
after harm.
No more hunger, no more war—the old ghosts finally laid
to rest,
In the glow of a soft, forgiving dawn, a land emerges,
blessed.
Yet every night, beneath the vast and starlit dome,
They gather ‘round to sing the tale of a child who gave
them home.

Her name is etched in every heart, in every whisper on
the wind,
A sacrifice so pure and deep, where hope and loss have
both sinned.
I stand on the edge of all we’ve lost, a drifter with a
soul that’s torn,
Haunted by the echoes of her last breath on that fateful,
blood-soaked morn.
But through the pain, I see the future that she fought so
hard to claim,
A world reborn from tears and scars, forever honored in
her name.

Blessed Imelda, your roots run deep in every street and stone,
Your sacrifice ignited life where once the winds had only moaned.
The paradise you dreamed of now blooms in every heart that beats,
A legacy of hope and love amid the shattered, broken streets.

I watch from distant hills, a ghost with memories to keep,
Haunted by the past, yet in your name, I find a reason to weep.
For in the quiet of this newborn land, where sorrow meets the light,
Your spirit sings eternal—guiding us through the endless night.