By Rajan George
Pelting stones from a glasshouse
At those who pass is far from wise.
Some may not notice, some may forgive,
Some may ignore—
But others will rise.
It may not sit well when those who react
Return in kind the gifts you gave.
Perhaps they’ll strike beyond your strength,
Perhaps destroy the ground you claim.
When power rests within your hand,
Check the mirror of your past—
The ghosts you made may rise again,
Demanding dues you thought had passed.
And though you cry, “It isn’t fair,”
That feeling’s one you used to sow—
No pity then for those you crushed,
No fear their wrath would one day grow.
You felt no pain but dealt it freely,
Deemed the innocent expendable.
Trapped them in your ruthless games,
Unmoved, unkind, unbendable.
The tools you forged with cruel intent
Unleashed a storm you cannot still.
Pandora’s box you cracked wide open—
Its wrath returns to have its fill.
April 28, 2025
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