I do not gaze upon the mountain’s height
And wish to be the stone, the silent ground.
I see instead its power to endure the weight
Of glaciers, storms, and centuries—
A patience carved into its spine of rock,
A lesson I am learning, slow but sure.
Its grandeur is not something I must mock,
But something I can claim, and make my own secure.
I do not envy the thrush’s silver song,
Nor grieve that I can never sing the same.
I hear within its notes what I’ve known all along—
A hidden voice inside me, yet untamed.
The melody that rises from its throat
It is but my own, unshackled, clearer note.
Yet truth is dangerous when it cuts both ways,
A double-edged blade that gleams and sways.
For when I meet the cynic, sharp and cold,
Who boasts of seeing through the world’s disguise,
I cannot simply turn away or scold—
I see his shadow flicker in my eyes.
That sneer, that armor forged to guard the heart,
That weary wisdom born of broken trust—
I know it well; it is a hidden part,
A fragment of myself I must adjust.
And when I watch the tyrant, proud and cruel,
Who builds his throne on backs that bend and break,
I do not call him some distorted fool;
I see the seed of hunger I could take.
The urge to rule, the craving for a name,
The fear that shouts so it will not be lost—
These live in me, though quiet, still a flame,
A mirror showing me the hidden cost.
So yes, we honor what we are—the light,
The courage, grace, and compassion we can bear.
But we must also, in the deepest night,
Admit the shadows waiting for our care.
The hero and the villain, side by side,
They are landscapes of the soul, both vast and true.
The world reflects us—nothing can be denied.
Its mirror burns, revealing me and you.
To grow is not to wear another mask,
Nor hide behind illusions we invent.
It is to polish glass, to take the task
Of seeing clearly what the mirror meant.
To face both light and shadow without fear
,
And walk toward tasks more kindly, more sincerely.
