The voice from within

 The cruelest words were mine alone,

Born in the chambers of my mind;

I carved them deep, then called them stone,

And wondered why no peace I’d find.

With years, that stern and watchful voice

Seemed less my own, yet would remain;

It spoke as though it had the choice

To make each tender thought a pain.

I sought no hatred from the world,

But feared the mirror’s searching gaze;

Yet in the morning light unfurled,

The self I judged still breathed and stayed.

Then, walking where the quiet stream

Ran silver through the meadow grass,

I heard the gentler voice of earth:

“No heart is healed by making war.”

So may I learn, as fields grow green,

To meet myself with kinder eyes.