As long as I stayed silent,
keeping patience locked within my chest,
people said I must be a great sage,
a brilliant son.
They said their lives would be blessed,
if they could raise a child like me.
But the moment I learned to speak,
to say what is white and what is the darkness of black,
they claimed my learning had driven my mind astray,
that I was no longer pure and good as before.
They said I had forgotten all manners and courtesy,
and asked why such a son had not yet been hung upon a stake.
For uttering the truth, I became condemned the bad son.
Yet when I searched within myself,
I found no other crime, no other root of fault.
Then I understood,
all they desired was flattery’s applause,
so their comfort would never be disturbed.
Still, in the end I came to know,
this strange unwritten law of society,
age is granted more weight than deeds,
whether or not one knows the subject at hand.
So long as you can play the sycophant to please their hearts,
you will be the crown jewel upon their heads.
But if ever you raise your voice in protest,
then you will be branded the bad son,
as though your book of manners has been erased forever.