By JH Sayyar
When darkness deepens o'er the silent land,
Stars grow cold upon the windswept dome,
When hope slips ghostlike from the weak hand,
And every thought finds no returning home—
Then whisper not of night’s eternal reign,
For in the womb of black, the gold is born;
Each grief-torn hour, each silent cry of pain
Prepares the soul to meet the coming morn
The deepest shade reveals the dawn's first light,
A blade of fire that cleaves the veil of gloom;
So wait, O heart, through sorrow’s longest night,
For roses bloom where ashes found their tomb
Though shadows threaten all we hold most dear,
When darkness deepens, know, morn draws near.
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