From the dark tunnel, two monks emerge—
their lantern a small sun,
its golden flame swaying gently
in the breath of dawn.
Behind them, stone and shadow fade,
the echo of their steps swallowed
by the quiet they carried through the night.
Before them, mist drifts over the fields,
soft and alive,
the world still half a dream.
The light of morning seeps through it all—
a silver hush becoming gold.
They pause at the threshold of day,
the elder lowering the lantern,
the younger watching as the flame
grows pale in the rising glow.
No words pass between them.
The lantern’s work is done.
The sun has taken its place.
Together, they step forward—
into the light that needs no flame.
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