As I near the twilight curve of life, 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.
I see you well, through these sacred eyes— The face, the fear, the trembling guise. Within your gaze, a thousand cries, Yet I see the softness the world denies.
You see my shadow, not my flame, Not the one who once bore this name. When I step into this painted grace, Even I forget my former face.
It’s not my power, nor my art, It’s him who speaks through every part. Not a mirror, not a man— Just a vessel in a grander plan.
Fear not this mask or voice so grim, It’s just the other side of him. But know this truth, serene, the same: Love still burns beneath the flame.
