The Lantern in the River

I set a lantern on the stream,

its flame a single, trembling word.

The river answered like a dream—

a hymn too soft to be unheard.

The water took it, slow and sure,

through reeds that bowed like souls in prayer.

The current whispered, “Nothing’s pure,

but love outlives the world’s despair.”

It drifted past the willow’s veil,

past stones that held the echo’s glow.

Each ripple bore a silver trail,

a breath of all I long to know.

I thought it gone—yet far downstream,

I saw its shimmer rise again.

The flame had split into a gleam,

and lit the faces of lost men.

Their eyes were stars, their hearts were glass,

their hands still reached for warmth and grace.

They smiled as though no shadows pass,

as though the dark were just a place.

I knelt beside the river’s bend,

and felt their voices in my veins.

They whispered, “Light is not an end,

but what the heart of time retains.”

So now, when sorrow floods the plain,

I walk to where the waters start.

I set my lantern there again—

a mirrored flame of what we are.