The Strength of Ripe Truth

To speak the truth is not to shout the loudest,
Nor claim you're right when others bend the knee.
It's to be ripe when most are still the proudest
Of green perfection — safe, but not yet free.

To tell the truth to others takes a spine
That knows the cost of standing in the light.
But harder still — to let that mirror shine
On your own flaws, your own forgotten fight.

They may not thank you. Some will turn away.
The truth can be a stranger in their house.
They'll call you reckless, dangerous, not okay —
A stone thrown through their comfortable glass.

And yet — you speak. Because too many whisper.
Too many swallow what burns in their chest.
Too many trade their voice for a safer whisper,
Forgetting that silence is a kind of death.

So speak it raw. Speak it unkind to kindness.
Speak it alone, if no one stands with you.
The world has had enough of loyal blindness —
Ripe truth is rare. And rare is always true.

That is strength. Not muscle. Not a tower.
But a human, trembling, saying: «This is me —
Unripe no more. I've found my voice. This hour
I choose the truth. Unlovely. But free.»