منتديات مجلة أقلام

#Mirrors of Echo#

O you whose face reflects serenity,

Caution is a thread of woven light for thee.

For men, you see, are mirrors of a twisted sound,

Beneath the skin, unspoken secrets can be found,

Metals that dim their gleam or shine without end.

The one who served his tongue to slander for your friend,

Is a well in the wall whose venom is the worst;

His lips are but an eagle's feather, lightly cursed,

Which hunts but for the shadow, the illusion deep.

He came, a bearer of wrong, fed on gossip's steep,

His whispers, like a serpent on the polished tile.

The ear that welcomed this sad vessel for a while,

Is the perfect haven where the poison finds its might,

A fertile ground for seeds of falsehood, black as night.

Be not surprised, then, if he heaps the blame on you!

For the carrier is a cycle, and the loop is true,

He will consume your flesh which others cast away,

As he devoured the absent one, that fatal day.

His tongue's a surgeon's knife, it serves the vice alone,

Not to bind up the wounds, but where there is none, to hone.

Who brought tales to you, will also speak of you, alas!

You are but a pathway, and not a stopping pass.

Your words are like the snowflakes in the cynic's hand,

They melt to swell the rumour throughout the barren land.

You deemed the secret truth, a tattoo on the wall,

But it was but a thread from conjectures' rise and fall,

Pulled from the great unknown to veil the present flaws.

Beware of the spirit whose mood obeys no laws,

The one who wears a mask of favour, soft and mild.

If you give him joy:

He crafts you an angel woven out of light,

He sets up statues of false praises, shining bright,

He lifts you upon pillars of what is not your own:

You are the boundless sea, the treasure yet unknown,

The tree whose roots ascend to touch immensity!

He gilds you with a gold you never possessed,

To buy the passing moment when your heart felt blessed.

But should his spirit sour:

The idols of false glory fall in a sudden sweep,

And the poem turns to insult, relentless and too deep!

He speaks of you what is not, sad to say and grim!

Much more than all the ill he jointed onto him!

He sees the demons hidden behind his old pretense,

Wields the mortal sword of poisoned offense,

Turns yesterday's illumination into cosmic night.

Wisdom, indeed, is not to satisfy the spite

Of the one who peddles tales and comes to haunt your mind,

But to close your soul's doors to the winds of 'what you'll find.'

Make your silence a shelter for your dignity,

Repel all those who come with another's secret key

That opens the lock of another person's trust.

For he who buys his heart with fabricated dust,

Will sell his own honour with the injury he’ll frame.

The only true peace is to witness your own good name,

And not to be the ear held captive by the gossip without end.

#NOUR EDDINE BALIGH#