The Last Lantern

The Last Lantern

In a village where shadows grew long with the sun,

Lived an old lantern maker, the very last one.

He crafted with care, with brass and with flame,

But few ever asked for the light or his name.

The world had moved on — to bulbs, screens, and glare,

No one paused for his lanterns, carved rare and fair.

Yet each night he lit one, and placed it with grace,

At the edge of the forest — the village’s face.

"Why do you do it?" the children would say,

"Who needs an old lantern to light up their way?"

He'd smile and reply with a wink in his eye:

"Some souls find their path by the glow, not the sky."

One stormy dusk, when the winds cried wild,

The forest grew dark, and they lost a child.

No phone light could cut through the thick of the black,

But a warm golden lantern still lit up the track.

It swayed in the rain like a hand in the air,

Guiding the lost with a flicker of care.

They followed the glow through the trees, through the storm,

And found the young child curled up, safe and warm.

From that day forth, at the end of the lane,

A lantern still burns in the wind and the rain.

Not just for the lost — but for hearts that may stray,

A poet’s soft promise: light finds its way.