The Weight Of A Matchstick
Courage often marks the beginning of tragedy:
Figures run across ice, armor and batons looming behind.
The fire trembles in the snow, yet still emits light.
True resistance is not only in bodily clashes;
It seeps into the air like gas, waiting for a match.
Songs, cameras, shouts—not for victory,
but to tear open the shell of fear.
A single drop cannot pierce stone,
yet flowing together, they can breach a dam.
Cracks form silently, allowing wind to pass through;
and after the wind, perhaps comes fire.
The weight of a matchstick lies not in burning away the night,
but in telling the night: it can be ignited.