Where Peace is Found

In the shadowed times when storms cloud the sky,
we search, our hands trembling, for the weight of calm.
Wise voices echo softly, the tone of dawn,
as if from a world far and yet as near as breath.

I hear them—sages who spoke not with thunder
but with whispers, warm as earth cupped in hand.
They tell me, “Peace is not the absence of fire,
but a flame burning low, a song heard within the fray.”

The heart knows the path: to weave peace as one might
a tapestry from threads worn, stretched, yet enduring.
“Love more than fear,” they murmur through the dust,
“Hold out your arms to the stranger, and call them friend.”

In these fractured lands, where the ground shakes,
their words steady like stones placed in a stream,
and the river, though troubled, does not yield,
for peace is found, as Neruda knew, in every small act