Ballad of Canker Sores

In a realm where silence golden, and speech a silver stream,
Lies a plight most harsh and sullen, a bard’s unwelcome dream.
For upon the tongue’s lush garden, where words do dance and soar,
Crept a fiend, unseen, unbidden, the dreaded canker sore.

“Alas!” cried the stricken poet, under midnight’s velvet cloak,
"What curse upon my vessel wrought, turns speech to ash and smoke?
This lesion, small yet mighty, a tempest in disguise,
Robs the taste of sweet and savory, brings tears to steady eyes."

In days of yore, when knights did battle under heaven’s gaze,
Not a foe more cruel and cunning, than this scourge’s silent blaze.
No sword nor shield can vanquish it, no mage’s spell undo
The pain that lingers, deep and true, a torment through and through.

The bard, in search of solace, through ancient tomes did pore,
For a balm to soothe the suffering, a key to lock this door.
“Salt and water, mild concoctions, bring relief, though slight,”
He penned with hand that trembled, by the candle’s flickering light.

Yet, amidst the shadowed anguish, a gleam of hope did shine,
For even in this darkened hour, the poet found a line.
"Though this torment racks my being, sets my soul afire,
Still, the words within me burning, kindle forth desire."

"To speak, to dream, to conquer this, my hidden, inner foe,
With patience, time, and gentle care, this too shall come to go.
For every trial, however bitter, however sharp its thorns,
Teaches us the strength of will, and of resilience born."

So, let this ballad echo, from the valleys to the shores,
A tale of pain and victory, of dreaded canker sores.
Though small in size, their lesson large, upon our spirits dawns:
In every pain, a purpose found, in every night, a dawn.

Thus, the poet’s words do whisper, through the corridors of time,
A reminder, ever gentle, of life’s mountain we must climb.
For even in our darkest moments, when hope seems but a lore,
Lies the strength to keep on climbing, the courage to endure.

In a land where whispers weave through the air like silken threads,
And tales meander, streams of lore, from hearts to eager heads,
Dwells a woe, both grim and stealthy, in the spoken word’s rich ore,
A malaise that strikes without mercy, the treacherous canker sore.

In the quiet of the moon’s embrace, where secrets find their voice,
A poet’s sanctuary turns battlefield, not by choice.
Upon the tapestry of speech, where dreams are spun and lore,
Lurks a specter, cruel and vile, the loathsome canker sore.

Oh, how the minstrels weep, their melodies turned to sighs,
For in the midst of verse and song, their muse, afflicted, lies.
No potion from the apothecary, no ancient herb or lore,
Can ease the torment or the dread of the ruthless canker sore.

Yet, amidst the shadowed pain, a gleam of truth does shine,
For even this curse, so bitter, tells of life’s design.
To know joy, we court sorrow; to seek light, darkness explore—
In every trial, some wisdom found, even in a canker sore.

Thus, in this realm of shadowed silence and streams that brightly pour,
Let this ballad echo, a reminder, evermore.
Though pain may visit, uninvited, at our heart’s very core,
We rise, we heal, we find our voice, despite the canker sore.

— Rishi Banerjee
July 2023