When The Wise Asked,

By Jaismeen Kaur

When the wise asked, 

In a voice that did not belong to mortals – 

Not loud like the fools,

Not hushed like the fearful,

But something you heard and felt at once –

“What is worse?

To be something unrecognisable,

Or to discover they only loved you

For what you could give?”

The room fell still.

No one spoke, but the silence agreed:

The latter must be worse.

Yet a small girl,

Who had somehow wandered into their world,

Tilted her head and thought,

“I don’t think I’d mind it -

To be liked for what I offer.

If someone dared to love even a shard of me,

I’d wear their affection like rose-tinted glasses,

And live inside that foolish, sacred glow.”

She whispered it -

But no one heard.

Someone smiled gently and said,

“You’re too little, sweetheart.”

A kindness,

Meant to soften.

But years from then,

Those words would be carved in her like scripture.

She thought she’d always be

The little girl,

Dreaming too loudly in a room that wouldn’t listen.

But now she stands with the wise,

Grey eyes, clean hands, careful heart.

And once again they ask,

In that same impossible voice:

“What do you think?”

But her lips move like strangers now.

She says only,

“I believe it’s saddening.”

And they nod,

Soft and satisfied.

They call her wise.

They do not see the journal she closes,

The one where her real thoughts rest -

Waiting to be burned

For a few quiet cents.

By Jaismeen Kaur