William Shakespeare

Respect

Oh, ponderous weight upon the soul doth lie, When man, entwined in web of mortal strife, Doth gaze upon the visage of his kin, And finds therein a mirror, bright yet dim, Reflecting not but shadows of his own. For in the tender fold of reverence, Respect, a flower delicate and rare, Doth blossom ‘midst the thorns of pride and scorn, A virtue oft ignored in haste and heat. What, then, is respect but love’s true essence, A balm that soothes the wounds of spite and ire, A gentle nod sent forth, as rivers bend, To honor what is noble in the heart? Yet, beware, for it is a fragile thread, Easily frayed by arrogance’s grasp, A fleeting thing that must be cultivated, Like gardens watered with sincerity. How often dost the world mistake the deed, To place a mask of courteousness on lips, Whilst inwardly, a tempest freely rages, And oft the eyes, though bright, do cloak disdain. Ah, to respect another is to rise, To lift one’s gaze above the mire of self, And see the spark of divinity that lies, Within the weakest forms that grace this earth. Thus let us weave respect into the fabric Of our shared existence, shining forth As radiant sun on darkened, stormy seas, For in that noble act, we find the key To bind the hearts of men in harmony, Uniting all beneath a common cause, To honor life, and bear the chain of love.