Pride

Pride

In quiet dawn the meadow sighs,
A stag lifts head with steady eyes,
His antlers crown the mist‑kissed glade,
A silent honour, softly made.

He walks where heather drinks the light,
His step a measured, noble rite,
Each breath a whisper of the earth,
Each heartbeat sings of ancient worth.

Not boastful roar nor flashing show,
But steadfast grace that rivers know—
A quiet strength that bears no name,
Yet holds the world within its frame.

So let us wear our pride like cloth,
Woven thin, yet strong, not loath,
Not glittering in gaudy guise,
But rooted deep where truth lies.

For pride, when worn with humble grace,
Is steadfast as the mountain’s face—
A steady flame that never tires,
A quiet fire that never expires.