Glass Houses

Glass Houses

In valleys bright where silence grows,
Stand houses made of tempered prose—
Each pane a truth, each wall a name,
So clear, so thin, and yet... the same.

They sparkle in the morning light,
So open, bare, and seeming right.
But fragile walls can't bear the weight
Of judgment clothed in scorn or hate.

One lifts a stone with fingers bold,
Forgetting tales that glass has told.
The crack begins—a whispered shame—
And all the rooms recall her name.

What folly, then, to cast a blow,
When every soul has scars to show?
What wisdom lies in holding still,
And seeing faults with gentler will?

So let your stones sleep in the dust,
For mercy grows where there is trust.
And those in homes of glass and air
Should tread with kindness, soft and fair.