Once again we parse the color of night,
the sounds of darkness, and hope for light.
Once again we feel a chill that sounds
like lightning, once again old wounds
begin to bleed anew. The hounds of war still bite.
Name a miracle. Not the candles, not the oil.
Name the miracle that stops oppression,
name the miracle that says, this patch of soil
is free. And so am I. And so are we.
Children, watch the candles glimmer,
watch them flicker, watch them glow.
No more mischief. You puff your cheeks to blow
the candles out. Your life is in the flame.
Each candle bears a name
of another child, a child like you.
The miracle is that we still remember.
We still remember, we still exist.
Each one of us a warm reminder
that we never will become
names on a list
that defines us only as a scattering of ashes.
The miracle is the blessing of the candles
by hands that bless the miracle of each child,
each child a spark of the future
tonight, and every other night,
sometimes meek, sometimes mild, sometimes wild… .