The Lanterns of Quiet Poets

“The Lanterns of Quiet Poets”

In a quiet town where the evenings glow,
Where lamp posts whisper and rivers flow,
Poets gather beneath the silent skies,
Carrying notebooks full of unspoken replies.

They come like seekers with hearts aflame,
Not chasing glory, fortune, or fame,
But simply to listen as truth unfolds,
In words like silver, in lines like gold.

No crowd applauds, no loud cheers rise,
Yet every poet feels rich and wise,
For poems are lanterns lighting the night,
Turning shadows into gentle light.

One poet draws rivers that dream in blue,
Another writes storms fierce, wild, and true,
A third pens laughter dancing like sun,
While a fourth paints sorrow, soft and undone.

Each line they breathe becomes a flame,
Different in shape, but equal in aim:
To show the heart the roads unseen,
To wash the soul, to keep thoughts clean.

The moon sits high like a patient guide,
Watching their verses side by side.
Stars gather close as if leaning in,
To listen how every poem begins.

Some poets scribble in nervous haste,
Others take time, letting words ferment and taste.
Some lines spill like rain, sudden and loud,
Others rest quietly beneath a cloud.

A poet of few words lifts his pen,
He writes of mountains, oceans, and when
Hope arrives slow like the morning breeze,
Bringing comfort with effortless ease.

Another poet, shy but brave,
Spills truth about memories time could not save.
His poem bends like a grieving tree,
Yet it stands with strength and dignity.

A boy with dreams taller than skies,
Writes of futures no fear can disguise.
He promises worlds where kindness grows,
Where friendship rises like a perfect rose.

An old man writes in ink worn thin,
His thoughts fragile, yet strong within.
His poem carries the wisdom of years,
A language carved through laughter and tears.

They do not compete, they do not compare,
For poetry is freedom—limitless air.
Each poet offers the world a voice,
Not forced or shouting, but peaceful by choice.

They know every poem is a lantern small,
And though it may not brighten all,
It might change one heart, save one soul,
Guide someone lost toward their goal.

The night deepens, the lanterns glow,
The poets pack their dreams to go,
Yet every step leaves a shining trace,
Like fireflies dancing from place to place.

The moon bows slow, the stars fade light,
But poetry stays long after the night.
It rests in notebooks, in hearts, in minds,
In the quiet spaces a listener finds.

And so the poets leave without noise,
Carrying whispers instead of toys.
They walk like lanterns, glowing inside,
With words as wings, and hope as their guide.

For poems are not merely written to rhyme,
They are bridges crossing the tides of time,
They heal the broken, strengthen the weak,
They let the silent truths finally speak.

And long after the poets step out of sight,
The town wakes up to gentle light.
For every line they crafted with care,
Has left a lantern burning somewhere.