At the Gate of the Poet

A student knocked on a poet’s door, unsure if he belonged inside,

While distant blues and trembling chimes turned silence into a guide.

He waited there with restless thoughts, on the edge of doubt and retreat,

Till a guardian rose before him—calm power in every heartbeat.

Her gaze saw through his hidden fears, her silence weighed his soul,

With breath and grace she measured him, then spoke with gentle control.

“You may not cross the sacred space, but meet me at the gate,

For those who truly seek the truth are never turned by fate.”

Beneath a shade the old man sat, with music worn and wise,

A life of storms behind his smile, and galaxies in his eyes.

The student stood in quiet awe, the guardian stepped away,

Leaving him in the presence of a mind both fierce and gray.

“Sit, my friend,” the poet said, “for you were brought with care,

No soul arrives before me unless a need is there.”

The student spoke of fear and loss, of a world undone by greed,

Of fading truth and broken trust, of justice left to bleed.

The poet listened patiently, then answered soft but clear,

“You see the world as it has turned—your vision holds no fear.”

“I too have stood where you now stand, in ages long before,

Where courage meant to lose it all, yet still defend the core.”

“But you,” he said, “are not so small—your art is where you rise,

For truth survives in painted words, not only crowns and lies.”

“Create, resist, let beauty speak where silence once was loud,

Let love become your loudest act, your defiance unbowed.”

The student left with lighter steps, though nothing yet had changed,

But now he held a quiet fire the world could not estrange.