The Lantern Carriers

In the town of Latchmere Vale, where cobbled paths entwine,
The nights are dim, the fog is thick, the stars refuse to shine.
But once a year or maybe two, a light will pierce the grey,
A lantern’s gleam, a dancing beam, to softly light the way.

The Lantern Carriers, they’re called, a curious little guild,
Who walk with flame in iron frames their careful hands have filled.
They neither shout, nor seek to preach, nor aim to start a flame,
They merely pass and softly cast a glow none else will claim.

Their lanterns varied, some held low, and some hung up quite high,
Some flickered blue like midnight dew, some golden as the sky.
They wandered not with grand parade, but quiet, slow, and true,
And yet the town would stir with fear whenever one came through.

“Beware!” cried out the cobbler’s wife, “They beckon to the moths!
Their fire’s lure disturbs the peace and burns what nature cloths!
Our daughters flit too close to flame, enchanted by the light,
The Lantern Carriers must go! They lead our girls to blight!”

A hush would fall, then murmurs rise, like thunder in a cup,
“The moths might fly into the fire, we’ve got to shut them up!”
And every time the lanterns glowed in alleyways or parks,
The people hissed and clenched their fists and muttered in the dark.

The mayor made a bold decree with ink and heavy hand:
“No lanterns near our schools or homes, it’s time to take a stand!
You’re free to live,” he said with grace, “but not too near our door,
Your light confuses moths too much, and we can’t take much more.”

“But why,” asked one, a farmer’s son, “do we not teach the moths
To mind the flame, to know its warmth, but not to burn their cloths?
The lanterns never snatch or trap, nor chase nor build a cage,
They only glow, and those who fear should temper fear with age.”

The townsfolk glared. “You’d say such things, you’ve always been too kind.
It’s not the flame we hate, per se, it’s what it leaves behind.
You see, the moths are drawn to it, and some forget their flight,
We’re only trying to protect them from too much gleaming light.”

The Lantern Carriers bowed low and vanished for a while,
They took their glow to distant woods and walked another mile.
But moths, as moths are wont to do, still wandered through the air,
And now with less to light their path, they crashed into despair.

The papers said, “It’s clear to us, the lanterns were the cause!
With them now gone, our moths behave, we’re safe again! Applause!”
And yet the bruises still appeared, the tears, the shattered wing,
But no one dared to draw the link or hear the truth they’d bring.

A child once with trembling hands approached a lanterned soul,
“I dream in light,” she whispered soft, “It helps to make me whole.
I’ve watched you walking all these years and wondered if, one day,
I’d carry flame within a frame and light my own small way.”

The Lantern Carrier knelt down, their face aglow with pride,
And passed the child a spark so small it barely burned inside.
But when the town caught wind of this, the rage began anew,
“The child’s too young to bear a light! They’ve ruined her virtue!”

“She’ll lure the moths, she’ll taint the sky, she’ll burn down every nest!
There must be rules, there must be laws, we’re doing this for the best!
No lanterns in the marketplace! No lanterns in the square!
We’ll ban their glow from every path! They’re simply not all there!”

And thus the Lantern Carriers found fewer roads to roam,
They clutched their light against their chest, unwelcome in their home.
They whispered warmth to one another, kept their fires alive,
But even lanterns need fresh air and space in which to thrive.

Still came the calls from trembling lips, still came the secret knocks,
From those who’d seen a lantern burn and felt their heart unlock.
From those who’d never fit quite right within the greyish gloom,
But saw themselves within the light and found a bit more room.

And still the fear was fed and stoked like coals beneath the grate,
By those who feared a changing world or sought someone to hate.
“It’s not the moths,” they’d say with pride, “It’s not about control,
It’s just that lanterns breed confusion, shadows in the soul.”

The Lantern Carriers met in groves, in caverns, out of sight,
And shared their dreams of distant lands where light was seen as right.
Where moths were taught to choose their flight, and blame was not so blind,
Where fires danced with careful grace and did not burn the kind.

They wrote a tale upon the walls of stone and hollow trees,
A tale of love, of hate, of fear, and hope upon the breeze.
They never begged for loud applause, nor asked to lead a show,
They only sought the basic right to walk, and burn, and glow.

But Latchmere Vale would not relent, it passed a harsher rule:
“Lanterns are a threat to youth, to safety, and to school!
We’ve proof,” they claimed, though none could say just where the proof was kept,
But fear needs fuel, not evidence, to stay so well-adept.

One night, the sky grew black with smoke, no stars could find their way,
And lanterns, banished far too long, could not illuminate the grey.
The moths flew blind, the children cried, the town was gripped by dread,
And still they blamed the ones who glowed, though they had long since fled.

A single lantern, worn and old, returned to Latchmere’s gate,
They did not speak, they made no plea, they did not preach of fate.
They simply stood and held their light against the dying dark,
And one by one, the moths returned, to gather ‘round its spark.

Some townsfolk wept, ashamed at last, some cursed and turned away,
Some muttered that the moths were fools to flutter near and stay.
But still the flame kept burning low, and steady was its gleam,
A quiet, warm, and welcome truth against the twisted dream.

The Lantern Carriers never left, though still not fully seen,
They walk the paths in shadowed lands where once they might have been.
And though the rules may come and go, and fear may wear new clothes,
They carry flame for those who need to know how bright hope glows.

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