The Lantern Belongs to Us
Not the hammer.
The bell.
The sound that says,
come together.
Every vote
is a hand reaching through the dark.
Every voice
strikes another spark.
The light is ours to carry.
Democracy
is not a fortress.
It is a table—
long enough
that another chair can always be pulled close.
It is bread,
broken until no one hungers alone.
It is a lantern,
passed from hand to hand.
Our leaders do not make the light.
They carry it
only because
we filled the lamp.
Our votes are the oil.
Our voices are the flame.
The light is ours to carry.
Hope does not bloom
because the ground is easy.
Hope roots beneath stone.
Hope learns
the language of cracks,
the patience of rivers,
the courage of seeds.
And when we stand together,
we become the weather—
not the storm that tears apart,
but the rain
that wakes forgotten fields.
The light is ours to carry.
Morning does not simply arrive.
It is opened.
By hands willing to build.
By hearts willing to listen.
By neighbors willing to stay.
The road ahead
is not waiting for heroes.
It is waiting for us.
One lantern.
Then another.
Until what seemed impossible
becomes visible.
Until what seemed distant
comes within reach.
Until the dawn
discovers
it has been walking toward us all along.
The light is ours to carry.
