You have known the weight of the long night—
when hours stretch endless as stone,
and silence gathers deep as an ocean about you.
You have searched the heavens for a sign,
and finding only shadow,
have wondered if morning had forgotten your name.

But the dawn does not forget.

It begins as a breath upon the horizon—
a thread of silver weaving through darkness,
frail to the eye, yet steadfast in its rising.
Then the colors awaken in solemn procession:
rose softening into gold,
violet giving way to flame,
until the night, unresisting, surrenders its hold.

The earth exhales.
The air quickens.
And the heart, long bowed beneath sorrow,
lifts as though borne on light itself.

Such is the nature of hope:
not sudden, but sure—
arriving in its season,
resolute as the turning of ages.

Hold fast to this certainty:
the night is not eternal.
The dawn does not fail.
It comes for you, unfailingly,
again and again—
a covenant written in radiance,
a promise enduring as time.

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