We Lit Too Much

The caravan of life has passed through strange and unforgiving landscapes.

There were valleys of silence,

roads heavy with dust,

and stations where hope waited like a delayed train.

We set out in search of peace —

believing it to be a quiet garden somewhere ahead.

But in chasing serenity,

we misplaced our sleep.

Our nights grew restless,

our thoughts louder than the wind against closed windows.

The very calm we longed for

became the reason we could not rest.

Then a messenger arrived —

breathless, certain —

and said they would come by evening.

Evening.

Such a gentle word.

Such a dangerous promise.

We began to prepare.

We lit lamps in every corner of the house.

We hung light upon light,

hope upon hope.

The walls shimmered with anticipation,

and our hearts glowed brighter than the flames.

But longing has its own fire.

Expectation burns hotter than oil.

And in our urgency to welcome what had not yet arrived,

we forgot the fragile nature of light.

The lamps multiplied.

The glow thickened.

The air grew warm — then unbearable.

By the time evening finally descended,

the house was no longer a home.

In our desperate celebration,

we had set it ablaze ourselves.

We searched for peace.

We waited for arrival.

And in the process,

we became the architects of our own ruin.