The Lantern of Memory

The lantern burns in the house of years,

its flame a vessel of joy and tears.

The glass is clouded, the wick is worn,

yet still it glows, though the night is torn.

It lights the face of those long gone,

their laughter brief, their echo strong.

It warms the room where silence dwells,

a fragile spark where absence swells.

Each shadow bends to touch its glow,

each ember hums of what I know:

the hand once near, the voice once true,

the love that time could not undo.

The lantern sings, remember me—

not as I was, but as I be.

For memory is the flame I bear,

a light that loss cannot repair.

I bow before its trembling grace,

and see the past in the lantern’s face.

It does not end, it does not part—

the lantern keeps what breaks the heart.