A silver mist drifts softly through the pines,
Its breath a hush upon the forest floor,
A lantern swings where tangled ivy twines,
Its flame a whisper, seeking evermore.
The path that vanished when the storm did roar,
Yet still it glows, though winds may twist and bend,
A quiet vow the dark shall never end.
It casts a golden ring on sodden stone
Where moss remembers footsteps long erased,
The trees lean close, as if to hear a tone
Of ancient songs the silence has embraced.
The flame persists, though time has not been chased;
It does not flee, nor does it yearn to stay.
It simply burns to light another way.
