The Ink of Gentle Voices

In the heart of Brightwell Town stood a small reading hall called The Lantern of Words. The building was old but comforting, its walls lined with shelves full of dusty poetry books that smelled like rain and history. People from the town often walked by without noticing it, except for those who loved one thing more than their morning tea—poetry.

Inside this quiet hall lived a community known as The Gentle Voices, a group of poets who believed that words were not weapons but bridges. They met every weekend, carrying notebooks filled with feelings more than fancy vocabulary. Among them was a shy young poet named Harris, who joined only because he wanted to learn how to express what his heart couldn’t speak aloud.

Harris never believed he was a good writer. His poems were short, sometimes only a few lines. The other members wrote long, beautifully shaped pieces. Some used metaphors like clouds turning into oceans, others described storms of emotion as if they were scholars of the sky. Harris felt small among them, like a whisper among loud thunder.

One afternoon, their mentor, Mr. Farid, who was admired for his humble words and soft encouragement, announced a town event: a Poetry Evening of Hope. Anyone from the community could share their work before hundreds of listeners. Harris tried to hide behind a stack of books as the group cheered. They were excited; he was terrified.

During the days that followed, the hall glowed with creative spirit. Pens danced across pages, notebooks filled with imagery, and cups of tea carried ideas from one poet to another. Harris watched, scribbling in silence. He wrote poems about small things—a falling leaf that refused to rot, a little bird that chirped despite broken wings, a night sky holding on to one stubborn star.

When the event day arrived, the hall was decorated with handwritten quotes and paper lanterns shaped like books. The audience filled the seats, waiting for the voices that would turn letters into emotion. Harris sat at the very end of the line, his paper shaking in his hand like a nervous leaf.

Poem after poem was presented. The crowd clapped, some eyes grew wet with emotion, some hearts softened. Then Mr. Farid called, “Our final voice—Harris.”

Harris stood up slowly, his legs heavy but his heart louder than it had ever been. He took a deep breath and began:

> “A leaf fell, but it didn’t give up.
It carried stories of the wind,
resting now, not broken—
waiting to grow into soil,
and feed another tree.”



The hall went silent. Harris continued:

> “One bird sings with a broken wing,
not because it flies,
but because it still believes
the sky listens.”



And finally:

> “Hope is not loud.
It is the quiet breath we take
after crying,
and the voice that whispers—
‘Tomorrow is still yours.’”



When he finished, he expected small applause, maybe pity. Instead, the hall erupted in claps, whistles, and heartfelt cheers. Mr. Farid walked to him and smiled, saying quietly, “Your words healed more than our poems performed.”

From that day, Harris realized that poetry was not about sounding grand—it was about touching hearts. His small words carried big feelings, and that was the true power of a poet.

The Gentle Voices continued their meetings, now with a new lesson: poetry isn’t measured by length or complex metaphors, but by honesty. And the little reading hall, The Lantern of Words, became brighter than ever.