Darkness rolled over the mountains like fog,
like a blanket of the deepest night.
The hues of black intermingled with grey,
without a trace or a glimpse of light.
Peak after peak the darkness oppressed,
not ceding a twig to its foe.
It was a place of doom, of haunted regret,
a wild where not many would go.
There were trees of menace, lagoons so grim,
and beasts of the frightening kind.
There were crags so sharp, summits so high,
but between them a trail would wind.
Traces were scarce and footprints unseen,
it was a trail untraveled for sure.
And then in an instant, what might have been light,
passed by in a blink, in a blur.
There was a rustle in the leaves, a flutter, a scurry,
so quick it was almost unheard.
It was quicker than a bullet, flashed like lightning,
but softer than the whisper of a word.
It cut through the darkness in zigs and zags,
darting up the trail toward the peak.
It bolted and blazed, unfazed by the black,
determined to move, and to seek.
Not only to seek but also to find,
it sought with a purpose, with a heart.
It tore through the mountains with all resolve
and confronted the beast called the dark.
It rose with a fervor, moved with a grace,
and struck like a bolt in the sky.
It fought not by sword but by light and truth,
a truth that grants wings to fly.
The light reached the summit and tore off the cliff,
but rather than fall it soared.
And the smallest of lights lit up like the sun,
and just like a lion it roared.
And so the candle that was held by the man
that rumbled over the ground,
Lit up the sky with light that he sought,
the light that he sought and found.