The Echo of a Word.

The Echo of a Word.

You cannot un‑thread the syllable
that’s slipped beneath another’s skin—
a spoken stone, a whispered blade,
still humming long after it’s said.

Words are rivers, fierce and low,
that carve their banks in tender hearts,
and sometimes they become
the flood that washes whole lives away.

What makes a tongue so mighty,
what gives a breath its bitter strength?
Is it the thunder of a childhood
where silence was a shield,
or the ember of a longing
that never learned to dim?

Perhaps it is the quiet
that sits behind the smile,
the unspoken fear
that sharpens every utterance,
the desire to be seen
more than we are willing to hear.

And so we brand each other
with the weight of our own echoes,
not knowing that the same
voice that can lift can also collapse.
The power lies not in the syllable,
but in the hand that lets it fall.

If we could hold our breath
before the word leaves our mouth,
feel the tremor of another’s chest,
perhaps the hammer of our voice
would pause, would soften,
and the stones we hurl would turn
into seeds of gentle rain.

—May we learn the art of listening,
the courage to let silence speak,
and the wisdom to remember
that every word we launch
is a fire we cannot quench.