In halls of wisdom, we strive and yearn,
Six years, eight years, the candle burns,
For knowledge vast, a gilded scroll,
A key, we're told, to make us whole.
But few the souls who dare to turn,
From books and charts, to heart's deep churn,
To spend mere months, or just a year,
To face the shadows we hold dear.
Anger's flame, and sorrow's sigh,
Untrained, they flicker, then amplify,
But in the stillness, if we learn,
To quench the fires, and not to spurn.
To listen soft, with tender grace,
To speak with love in every space,
Is to transform our darkest night,
Into a beacon, pure and bright.
For heroes aren't those armored strong,
But those who right what's deeply wrong,
Who turn their pain to healing art,
And offer joy from open heart.
The hero's path is carved in light,
Not in the laurels of the fight,
But in the moments, calm and kind,
Where love and peace the spirit bind.
So, study well the ways of care,
And find the hero waiting there,
Within your soul, a quiet place,
Where anger yields to love's embrace.
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