Sense

Sense – a quiet compass in the breast,
A whisper of the world that lingers,
Not merely sight, nor sound, nor taste,
But the subtle thread that weaves them all.

It is the hush before the dawn,
The pause between two heartbeats,
The instinct that steadies a wandering mind,
Like an old map drawn in ink of experience.

In the market’s clamour, sense finds its voice,
Choosing the ripe fruit, the honest bargain,
Weighing options with a measured grin,
Knowing when to speak and when to listen.

When sorrow drapes its heavy shawl,
Sense is the soft hand that lifts the veil,
Reminding us that grief, like rain,
Feeds the roots of future joy.

So let us cherish this quiet guide,
Not the loud proclaimed, but the felt, the known—
For in the tapestry of being,
Sense is the colour that gives depth to every hue.