In the act of casting dirt,
Beware: a tempest swirls, suspended air.
It may not touch another's frame,
Yet clings to hands, a lasting claim.

A cascade of words, like soil thrown,
Echoes linger, seeds sown
In the silent echoes, they find their berth,
Staining hands with the soil of words.

Speak with kindness, let understanding flow.
For the dirt thrown may forever glow.
On hands that reached in anger's quest,
A constant reminder, a bitter mark.

Choose words that plant flowers, not thorns,
In the garden of discourse, where peace is born.
For when the storm of words has passed,
Let not the soil on hands forever last.

Source: Stains of Silence – Grounds For Hope