Shayan Afzal

There is a kind of strength that does not announce itself. It does not beg to be witnessed, praised, liked, saved, or understood. It simply remains.
This poem is about that older kind of dignity, the kind that survives the noise of the modern world without becoming bitter, theatrical, or hollow. It is about feeling deeply without making a public wound of yourself. It is about beauty, restraint, self possession, and the quiet refusal to trade your inner life for cheap attention.

What light remains when all the world grows loud,
And every tongue would purchase praise with noise?
I walk not bent beneath the shouting crowd,
Nor sell my soul for borrowed little joys.

The glassy age holds mirrors up to men,
And bids them kneel before their own display;
Yet I would rather be unknown again
Than wear a crown that withers in a day.

O heart, be still, yet do not turn to stone;
Let beauty enter, but let pride stand near.
A man may feel and yet remain his own,
May love the rose and never serve the fear.

For he who bears his silence like a crown
Is most a king when no one writes it down.