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They do not roar to prove their worth,
Or crowd the spaces of the earth;
They filter thought before they speak,
In gentle tones, serene and meek.
A raised-up voice they do not need,
For quiet truth is where they lead.
They do not live for hollow praise,
Or stage the drama of their days;
While others sprint to show and tell,
They tend the garden of their well.
They find a wealth that cannot break
In harmony and peace they make.
With careful steps, they walk the floor,
And never push a heavy door;
They ask of life a simple art:
To leave no bruise upon a heart.
To heal a fracture, calm a fright,
And step through darkness with a light.
In chaotic winds that pull and strain,
They are the shelter from the rain.
For power does not need to shout—
It is the flame that stays the doubt.
And in their presence, we find room
To watch our own quiet spirit bloom.
