Do you remember the first time darkness swallowed the room?

The kind of dark that feels endless,

Where shadows curl into themselves,

And the air grows heavy with silence.

In that moment, it wasn’t the absence of sight that struck you—

It was the absence of certainty.

Then came a light.

Not the roar of the sun,

Not a food that drowned the dark,

But a fragile flicker in trembling hands.

It wasn’t much—just enough.

Enough to steady your breath,

Enough to guide your next step.

That is the nature of hope.

It is not a grand bonfire,

Not a beacon blazing across horizons.

It is a single match struck in defiance,

A quiet rebellion against despair.

Hope lives in the smallest gestures:

The hand that reaches out when you stumble,

The stranger who smiles when the world feels too cruel,

The seed planted in barren soil

Because someone dared to believe

That it might grow.

And it is not for the unbroken.

No, hope belongs to those

Who carry scars like maps

And yet still walk forward.

It belongs to the ones who rise again,

Their knees scraped, their voices hoarse,

But their hearts aflame.

Hope is stubborn.

It survives in places where it has no right to be—

In war zones and hospital beds,

In prison cells and funeral halls.

It lives in the eyes of a child

Who sees the stars

Even when the sky is covered in smoke.

Hope is this light.

It is not loud or roaring,

but a flicker carried in fragile hands.

It hums softly in your chest,

a quiet defiance against despair.

It does not promise an easy path,

but it promises there is a path.

You find it in the child

who plants a seed they may never see grow,

in the voice that rises aloneAs it surely will,

when the world has turned away.

It lives in the widow who wakes,

day after day,

to an empty chair at the table,

yet still sets out two plates,

believing one day love will return.

Hope is not a monument;

it is a match struck in the storm.

It dances in the hands of those who keep walking

despite the weight of their burden,

in the dreams of those who refuse to yield

to the tyranny of “impossible.”

So when the darkness comes for you again,

when your own light begins to fade,

and when your flame gutters in the wind.

As it surely will,

you must remember:

Hope is not meant to be carried alone.

Hope is a shared thing.

It is a fire we pass from hand to hand,

a living torch ignited by the belief

that we are not alone.

A shared flame that grows brighter

Each time it’s given away.

So hold it high, this light you carry.

Let it guide you through the jagged edges of the night.

Let it illuminate the faces of those who march beside you.

For the light you carry is not just for yourself.

It is for the lost who will follow your glow,

For the weary who need your warmth.

Even a flicker can light the way.

Even the smallest flame can set the world ablaze.

About the Poet 

J

Fhionna Ghavrielle Arizala Tapia, a Grade 9 student from Far Eastern Private School, Al Shahba. she has written a powerful poem titled “The Light We Carry,” exploring themes of hope, resilience, and the quiet strength that resides in us all, even during the darkest of times.