The Man Who Stole Fire From Time

They said
he walked with no shadow
because his past
refused
to follow him.

He didn’t speak.
He burned.

Not with rage,
but with memory.
Not with light,
but with truth
too hot
to hold.

He found fire
in a place
where time forgot itself
a corner
between a scream
and a prayer.

And he stole it.

Not to warm the world,
but to remind it
how cold
we had become.

He lit the letters
of lost languages.
He lit the bones
of broken dreams.
He lit his own name
just to erase it.

When people asked,
"Why burn the past?"
He answered:
"Because we keep trying
to live in ashes."

The rain feared him.
The wind watched him.
Even death
gave him space
to finish his sentence.

And when the last flame
curled like a question
into the night,

He smiled
and vanished.

Not into darkness.
Not into dust.
But into
the heartbeat
of every soul
that ever wondered
what it meant
to remember
and still
choose
to rise.