The Sun Will Rise

Even in the hardest days, the sun will rise—
Not always in splendour, not always in song,
But with the quiet dignity of those who carry
Too much sorrow, yet still move along.

There are mornings when the sky forgets to blush,
When dawn stumbles in like a weary traveller,
Threadbare and late,
Yet faithful in its arrival.

Grief may cast its long shadow,
Stretching over hours like a veil of ash,
And hope—
Hope may falter,
Like a candle trembling in the wind.

But still, the sun, in all its golden silence,
Will lift its head above the trembling trees,
Spilling light upon crumpled linen sheets,
Upon cracked porcelain, upon coffee left cold—
Reminding us that beginnings
Are not always loud.

Some mornings are stitched with quiet courage.
Not triumph,
But endurance.

And perhaps that is enough—
To open our eyes,
To breathe again,
To watch the world exhale beneath an amber sky,
And to believe, if only for a fleeting moment,
That even sorrow must make way for light.

So let the night speak its aching truth,
Let the hours unfold with their weight and wonder—
For even in the hardest days,
The sun will rise,
And that is a kind of mercy.