When I was a teacher, I often wondered at my own words.
Eloquent, I stood before a class and spun them for all to hear. I spoke well of history and language and beauty. From mocking teenagers I evoked for dying Caesar a woeful tear.
I spoke in tones harsh and hard. To those who would their learning watse away. Yet for all my rebukes they loved me by the end of day.
I spoke unto my colleagues as a learned friend should do. Unto my ideals and thoughts other minds to woo.
I spoke unto a crowd of people. Many thousands strong. To help me shape a concert from a lost unruly throng.
I spoke much when I was a teacher. I spoke perhaps too much, for now in later years I’ve learned the power of silence’s touch. I speak no more to masses nor to many faces, yet my silent eyes behold how weak my words were in truth, in so many hidden places.
Here in the quiet I wonder and behold, I see the seeds of words flower and unfold. Fain would I speak again to my many pupils and choose my speech with greater care. For I know now that love is constant even above knowledge golden rare.
I pride myself in my own humble way. I am no more a borrowed mirror of another’s written chord. My own bloods ink now rides in every quiet word.