Harsh

Harsh

In the hush of dawn, the wind bites keen,
A frosted breath that tears the quiet green,
It scrapes the hedges, strips the leaf‑soft sheen,
And turns the fields to iron‑grey sheen.

Harsh are the words that fall like shattered glass,
Each syllable a shard that cuts the past,
They linger in the air, a brittle mass,
Echoing long after the speaker has passed.

Yet in the harshness lies a stubborn seed,
A resolve that sprouts where hope would bleed,
For thorns may guard the rose, and storm‑torn creed
Can forge the steel that fuels the daring deed.

So let the world be rough, let tempers flare,
In every harsh encounter find a prayer—
That grit and grace may walk the same thin stair,
And beauty bloom beyond the bitter air.