Conscience

A quiet voice beneath the roar,
The whisper knocking at the door,
A silent guide through dark and light,
The keeper of what’s wrong and right.

It hides where shadows softly lay,
In corners where our secrets stray,
A mirror clear, though often veiled,
A truth that waits, and won’t be paled.

It knows the weight of selfish gain,
It feels the brush of others’ pain,
It calls us back when we have strayed,
A vow within, unseen, yet made.

No judge, no jury in its gaze,
It seeks no verdict, speaks no praise,
Yet day by day it marks our deeds,
And tends the garden of our seeds.

So heed the voice, though soft and small,
The compass faint, beneath it all,
For conscience is a fragile fire—
A trust we must, and should, desire.