I Win Quietly
Destruction is loud, the world takes note.
They think they win in this game of petty battles.
My quiet strength outlasts their frantic schemes,
Unfortunately for them, my game is peace.
Like a drug running through their veins,
they willingly harbour the hatred they won’t feign.
There is no line they won’t cross,
A tale of love and hate in equal measure, deeply embossed.
By hook or by crook, they’ll snatch and destroy.
To win this war, deception is their ploy.
A war was waged when ego met opprobrium;
Indignity was served in the evil auditorium.
One old insult still echoes through the ages,
where laughter became the first spark of war.
The echo rings in every scorching page,
And in the silence that remembers more.
She called a blind man’s son blind,
pointing a finger with a hearty laugh.
This measure of ridicule, words could not find,
when the hand of justice raises its staff.
Building is quiet, the struggle unseen,
Losing is quiet, the ground where hope has been.
Peace is quiet, letting go is healing
Suffering is quiet, like dawn from night concealing.
Battles will continue to wage
In the maddening riot of marauders,
Warmongers and harbingers of hate,
Until evil is cast through hell’s gate.
I win quietly.
This poem draws on a moment from the Mahābhārata, the great Indian epic. When Draupadī laughs at Duryodhana after he stumbles into a pool of flowers, calling him “blind” like his father Dhṛtarāṣṭra, her mockery is not taken lightly. That insult is often seen as one of the sparks that ignites the war. Later, after Duryodhana wins Draupadī in the game of dice, he seeks brutal revenge by publicly humiliating her. The stanza “she called a blind man’s son blind…” reimagines that cycle of ridicule and retribution, framing quiet endurance as the true victory.