An Ode to Socrates

To be hated in life

is no measure of a man’s worth.

For history unravels lies

once pride’s hand releases the reins

and time reveals the truth.

He dared to doubt—

the world,

authority,

his own mind.

He sought objectivity

in a sea of subjective certainty,

and for this,

he was scorned, imprisoned,

put to death.

Why must darkness consume

the brightest flame?

Because he refused to play the game.

He lived for truth, not favor.

True wisdom, he said,

is born of knowing

how little we know.

And so, he was punished

for the gravest of crimes—

to think critically,

to ask “why,”

to hold a mirror to the faces

of those who could not bear

their own reflection.

Only to be bludgeoned by man’s oldest weapon—

ignorance.

And yet,

he met his end

as he greeted his days:

with wisdom, with serenity.

His cup of poison no more bitter

than a lie.

Let me live as he did,

unyielding to fear,

unbent by pressure,

unmoved by comfort’s shallow call.

Let me walk into the dark unknown

with courage as my compass,

with truth as my lantern,

and dignity as my final breath.

"The Death of Socrates"

Painting by Jacques-Louis David