The Song of Endless Roads I. The Beginning The morning stirs with golden breath, A hush before the day is born. The earth awakens, soft and slow, Its heart still trembling from the dawn. I step into the waiting silence, Shoes damp with dew, lungs filled with sky. The road before me bends and whispers, “Walk on, child, don’t ask why.” For every path has secrets hidden, Carved in stone and sung by streams, And those who dare to keep on walking Find their footsteps leading into dreams. II. Voices of the Earth The fields are choirs of quiet wonder, Grass blades hum in emerald rows. The trees hold council in their stillness, Guardians of what the spirit knows. Birdsong bursts like sudden laughter, Rising clear where shadows fade. Each feathered voice a note of freedom, Each trill a hymn creation made. The wind becomes my patient teacher, Tracing stories along my skin. It speaks of journeys without ending, Of worlds that live both out and in. III. The Weight ...
The Lantern in the Lake
Mira had always feared the lake.
It stretched at the edge of her village like a giant mirror, dark and silent, swallowing the moonlight whole. Children whispered that ghosts lived in its depths, their lanterns glowing beneath the water. Mira never believed the tales—until the night she saw one.
It was the harvest festival, and the village gathered to light paper lanterns, sending them into the sky as prayers for good fortune. Mira, restless and grieving her grandmother’s recent passing, wandered away from the music and laughter. She carried her own lantern, unlit, down the narrow path that led to the lake.
The surface was calm, glassy. She knelt, struck a match, and lit her lantern. Its glow trembled in the breeze. She was about to let it rise into the sky when something flickered below.
A light—small, golden, swaying gently beneath the water.
Mira froze. The villagers’ stories rushed back: the dead carried lanterns under the lake, waiting for messages from the living. Heart pounding, she leaned closer. The light grew brighter, and slowly, impossibly, a shape emerged—a woman’s face, soft and familiar.
Her grandmother.
Mira gasped, stumbling back, but the vision didn’t vanish. Instead, her grandmother’s voice drifted up, muffled as though through water: “Why are you afraid, child?”
Tears welled in Mira’s eyes. “I miss you,” she whispered. “It’s too quiet without you.”
The glowing face smiled sadly. “I am not gone, Mira. The ones you love never truly leave. But you must keep living. Promise me you will not let sorrow drown you.”
The lantern in Mira’s hands shook. She wanted to leap into the water, to hold onto that light, but she remembered her grandmother’s last words in the sickbed: “Be brave.”
She took a deep breath. “I promise,” she said.
The glow beneath the water began to fade. Before it disappeared completely, the voice whispered: “Then let it fly, Mira. Let it fly for both of us.”
Mira stood tall, holding the lantern to the sky. She opened her fingers, and the warm paper balloon rose, wobbling at first, then drifting higher, its golden glow reflected in the lake. For a moment, she thought she saw two lanterns rising together—hers and another, trailing faintly beside it—before the second melted into the stars.
When Mira returned to the village, she no longer felt the weight pressing on her chest. She knew grief would remain, but so would light. Every year after, she walked to the lake alone and set her lantern afloat. Not because she feared the lake anymore—but because she understood it was a place where memories and love quietly lingered.
And sometimes, when the wind was still and the water calm, she thought she saw another lantern glowing beneath the surface, keeping watch.
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