The Lamp Within
memories glow—half ember, half flame.
Once, the street would echo with laughter and clang,
vessels clattering by the public tap at one a.m.,
tiny hands waiting in line, slick with sesame oil—
the ritual to rinse away bad luck,
the dawn bath, the race to light the sky
before the sun could claim the first spark.
Now, the oil burns inside screens—
WhatsApp greetings, pixel lamps,
and faces that flicker, not quite near, not quite gone.
Children and their children dream elsewhere,
and my mother, in her quiet nest,
still lights her lamp the old way,
its glow steady, refusing to learn Wi-Fi.
I sit by the balcony’s hush,
wondering—
is it the spark that’s changed its hue,
or have we traded the warmth of hands
for the hum of notifications?
The glitter fades faster than my breath,
yet somewhere deep within,
a small flame endures—
not dissolving,
just transforming—
from the crackle of fireworks
to the silence of light.