The Stoic’s Garden
The storm may howl against the heavy door,
And lightning split the ancient, gnarled tree;
The waves may crash upon the jagged shore,
But what is external cannot tether me.
I plant my garden in the quiet mind,
Where only reason’s steady light can grow;
No phantom fear or treasure left behind
Can stir the peace that only sages know.
For life is but a loan of borrowed breath,
A brief performance on a crowded stage;
I fear no shadow, nor the sting of death,
Nor all the furies of a passing age.
The world may shake, but here I stand upright—
The master of my own internal light.
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