The Lantern

We are in darkness now.

It presses close.

A held breath,

a hand over the mouth of the world.

It crowds the ribs,

asks us to forget how wide our chests once were.

But darkness is not new.

It is the womb of every dawn.

The seed does not fear the soil,

and the stars are born only

after the sky admits it cannot hold the light alone.

Do not tell us this is the triumph of men,

or the failure of nations.

Do not distract us with the clatter of names and thrones.

This moment asks something deeper of us.

It asks where we place our love.

Turn it

not toward the noise,

not toward the rot that feeds on our attention,

but toward the ones standing barefoot

against the tide.

Toward those who refuse to bow.

Toward those carrying bruises like constellations.

Toward those whose days are measured in losses

and whose nights are thick with unanswered prayers.

Aim your energy there.

Let it be a wild current.

Let it be a hand beneath the chin of the fallen,

a voice that says you are not imagining this pain,

a fire that says you are not alone.

For the darkness inside man,

however loud it roars

is a candle held to the Sun

when set beside the light and magic of women.

That ancient, world-making light.

That knowing.

That fierce tenderness that survives

every attempt to bury it.

So link arms.

Yes! Link them.

Make of your bodies a bridge.

Lift your faces.

Feel the heat.

Remember you were shaped by stars

that never asked permission to burn.

And pour your light,

not in rage,

not in fear,

but in devotion.

Into your sisters and brothers

who are crushed beneath injustice even now.

This is how light spreads.

Not by conquering,

but by gathering.

Not by shouting at the dark,

but by loving so loudly

that the dark has nowhere left to stand.

Stand.

Shine together.

We are the lantern in the dark.