The bridge, a bone stretched across the sky,
beneath it the gray waves driven by wind;
with every leaf that falls from the trees,
another secret is stripped from Mira’s heart,
another veil torn away.
The Little Red Lighthouse,
a patient witness for a hundred years,
the hum of steel, the breath of water,
and the darkness in Mira’s eyes—
all beating in the same rhythm of night.
Loneliness—
a desert, a mountain, a cave,
or a silent scream echoing
in the midst of crowds.
But Mira now knows:
every echo is the shadow of her own voice,
every shadow, the seed of her own light.
Dreams burn—
forests blaze,
walls crack,
and from the ashes a sprout
stretches stubbornly toward the sky.
That sprout is Mira,
reborn in fire,
a phoenix rising from her own ashes.
The city, a noisy sea,
crashes against her inner silence;
but she no longer fears,
for she knows:
every spark of the universe—
a page in a book,
a stranger’s smile,
a line from a song—
whispers her path to her.
And Mira, gazing into the mirror, says:
“I am ready.
I am light.
And I am ready to give my light to the world.”
