The Last Lantern Still Burns

A ship, not grand, but brave and worn,

With sails once white, now frayed and torn,

Left harbor under silver skies

With hope that quiet seas imply.

Her name was Hope, etched deep in wood,

She carried grain, she carried good.

A dozen souls, both young and old,

With stories, scars, and hearts grown bold.

But on the third, pale, silent night,

The moon withdrew her silver light.

The air grew thick, the sky turned black —

And thunder rolled like cannons' crack.

The wind arrived without a word,

A howling beast, unseen, unheard.

It tore the calm, it ripped the mast,

It threw the ship both slow and fast.

The sea became a wall of teeth,

With boiling rage just underneath.

Each wave a tower, tall and grey,

That tried to drag the Hope away.

The ropes went slack, the wood did moan,

The lanterns swayed with weary groan.

One man was lost into the foam,

The sea, in hunger, dragged him home.

The captain — old, with eyes like stone —

Tied down the wheel, now all alone.

His hands were cracked, his coat was torn,

But through the dark, his eyes still shone.

He screamed, “Hold fast! We’re not yet gone!

This storm is wild, but not for long.

She’s testing us! This wicked sea!

But Hope was built for storms like these!”

The sails in shreds, the hull half-broke,

Still through the waves, the Hope just poked.

Each gust she met with cracking groan,

But never once she sailed alone.

The crew, though bruised and barely dry,

Refused to look the storm in eye.

They prayed, they sang, they mended rope,

With grit, and sweat, and stubborn hope.

The rain, it came in sheets of steel,

The deck a blur beneath their heels.

Lightning danced on masts and waves —

A sea of ghosts, of watery graves.

But even as the rudder cracked,

And all the maps were lost or sacked,

The compass spun, the stars were gone —

Still Hope, she pressed her journey on.

By morning’s edge, the sky turned gold,

The wind exhaled, no longer cold.

The waves grew still, the sea took breath,

The storm had spent its song of death.

And in that hush, so wide and deep,

The battered ship began to weep.

Her boards still wet, her soul still sore —

But she had made it to the shore.

One lantern still was burning low,

Its glass cracked wide, its candle slow.

But fire lived, and that was proof:

Some journeys test the strongest roof,

But faith, and hands, and hearts endure

When winds are wild and paths unsure.