A gift, I call it
The beauty of words
For whoever can weave
Magic like a bard.

It's a gift that belongs
To many amongst us
But few hear its call
And bare to it their souls.

And those who do
Do they know the true
Ways in which they now hold the glue
To make or break a bond or two?

If only one knew how words cut deep
If only they knew how silence doesn't heal,
Not every time, that's not what I mean
But perhaps when a kind word is all you need?

If speaking our minds made a fool of us
I'd rather look one than carry a farce;
If the burden of pretense only keeps you apart
Isn't it just easier to speak our hearts?

(Landscape captured in Laitlum, Meghalaya, India.)