In the caverns of heart where silence dwells,
A specter named Pain, unseen and unheard,
Echoes a tale of agony that seldom tells.
Winds its way through thoughts, undeterred.

Pain, the silent artist, in the dead of night,
It paints in strokes deep, heavy and forlorn,
Carves profound lessons with a blade of plight.
On the canvas of life, a masterpiece is born.

The gardens of joy, it turns into barren land,
Yet, within its tyranny, a paradox hides,
Ruthless and cold, with an iron hand.
In its relentless push, a strength abides.

Oft in the whispers of the biting gale,
Is a melody sweet, a victorious tale.
For, Pain, the harsh tutor, imparts a lesson rare,
In the crucible of suffering, true selves lay bare.

It strips away layers of superficiality,
In its oppressive dark, we find our light,
Exposing raw courage, resilience, reality,
In the abyss of despair, we learn to fight.

Pain, the bitter potion, when courageously consumed,
A path that leads to wisdom’s vast domain,
Unveils a path where hope is exhumed,
A path carved and paved by the hand of Pain.

Thus, in the face of Pain, we come to see,
For, it is not Pain that leaves us broken,
A mirror reflecting our own decree.
But our response to its solemn token.

Pain, the silent poet, pens a verse of growth,
In its icy grip, we find a flame,
A tale of battles, of oaths and both.
In the heart of Pain, we find our name.

The tale of agony be told,
For in the end, through every strain,
Of nights in torment, of warriors bold.
We are but sculpted by the hand of Pain.

© Simrans