“When failure shrouded my twenty-year-old world like a burial cloth, 
That’s when my mother pressed a dark wood chip into my palm –
warm from her pocket, smelling of damp earth and ancient forests. 
 ‘This agarwood survived lightning strikes and beetle invasions,’ she whispered, 
 ‘Its wounds became the birthplace of its magic. 
Let it remind you: your cracks are where the light gets in.’

Back then, I didn’t grasp her wisdom,
yet I carried those words like a seed.
Years later beneath millennial agarwood canopies,
I learned the silent language of resin:

How trees endure storms in sacred stillness,
Transforming scars into crystalline amber—
Just as desert roses bloom from barren salt flats
By turning hardship into geometric wonder.

Now I understand:
We are all agarwood in the making.
Life’s tempests carve our terrain,
Time’s teeth hollow our core,
Yet within every rupture,
we distill our essence—
drop by luminous drop.

This is the covenant of Yaraana:
To honor fractures as nature’s fingerprints,
To find in brokenness the blueprint of becoming,
To remember that light needs no permission—
it flows where the cracks allow.