The Lanterns of Quiet Words

Poetry does not arrive like thunder. It comes softly, like the lantern glow that spreads patiently through a dark room. In a small town where nights were full of silent stars, there lived a circle of poets who believed that words were not just sentences—they were pieces of the soul.

They called themselves The Lantern Society, not because they were secretive, but because they promised to become light for each other’s creativity. Every Friday evening, the poets gathered in a quiet library hall, where the scent of old books mixed with the sweetness of brewed tea. No loud speeches. No competitions. Just words, warm and honest.

Among them was a young poet named Haris, who attended the meetings but rarely spoke. His notebook was full, yet he believed none of his poems were worth being read. He wrote on the bus, during lunch breaks, late at night under a lamp—but when it came time to share, he hid those pages like precious but unfinished dreams.

One evening, the group decided that each member should read something about hope. The hall felt extra calm that day, as if the shelves themselves were listening. Beautiful verses filled the air like drifting petals: poems about rain returning after drought, about broken hearts learning to smile again, about the sun traveling patiently every morning to reach the sky.

Then came Haris’s turn.

He froze. His hands tightened around the notebook. His heart beat like a drum too busy to keep rhythm. “I… I don’t think mine is ready,” he whispered.

The eldest poet, an old man named Sir Imtiaz, smiled gently. “Hope is never perfect. It is simply shared.” He slid a lantern closer to Haris. “Let your words receive light.”

Haris took a deep breath and began reading, not loudly, but softly, as if speaking to a friend who was very close:

“Before the sun reaches the hills, it hesitates too.
Before the flowers open, they wait for dew.
If the wind can pause before crossing a field,
Then I too can learn to heal slow, but real.”

Silence followed—not the uncomfortable kind, but the silence of admiration. The poets looked at him with eyes full of respect, not pity. For the first time, Haris felt his voice mattered.

One of the members, a woman who often wrote about seasons, clapped first. Soon the entire hall joined. Their applause was not thunderous; it was warm, like rain that nourishes the soil quietly. Haris felt something inside him bloom—the courage to continue.

Sir Imtiaz leaned forward. “You see, young poet,” he said, “we write not because we are perfect. We write because something in us refuses to remain silent.”

From that day onwards, Haris began sharing more, and his poems inspired others in ways he never imagined. He wrote about patience, about the beauty of plain tea, about dust turning golden in sunlight. He discovered that poetry was not only about grand emotions; it was also about ordinary things becoming extraordinary under thoughtful words.

The Lantern Society grew stronger not because they were the greatest poets, but because they nurtured one another. They understood that poetry survives when shared gently, like a lantern passed from hand to hand, lighting new paths.

And so, every Friday night, as the moon watched over the quiet library, small sparks of imagination turned into stories, verses, and dreams—proof that silence, when respected, can turn into poetry.

For they were not just writers.
They were lanterns of quiet words.