[source]
(https://pixabay.com/photos/lamp-oil-lamp-nostalgia-old-2903830/)
Lamps do not share light,
they illuminate the path of others
with their own flame
This is not merely a sacrifice of the body
but an offering of one's existence
to dispel some unknown darkness
They are lamps sculpted from clay,
fueled by oil,
but neither their body nor their flame
When fire touches them,
it is someone else's fingers,
and when they extinguish,
their silence gives way to darkness,
without protest,
without expectation of a response.
They do not live for themselves
Their souls are in tune with the prayers of others
sometimes before a deity on a peak,
sometimes in the silent darkness of their home
Their flame,
as long as even a drop of oil remains
continues to dissolve itself
into the pulse of breath.
And the end?
No farewell, no reverence,
only an ash, a silent memory,
an unfinished story
a lamp, untold in silence
a fire contained, a labor,
a dream, an existence,
that knew sacrifice,
surrender but does not learn
to beg and beg.
