The Luminous Dawn

At the moment when darkness yawns, dawn emerges like a dream slipping through the fingers of the night—not merely light, but a second birth of time. Its threads stretch like the arms of a galaxy searching for its reach, scattering shards of light into uninhabited orbits, washing the earth with an eternal dew—unseen, yet deeply felt.

Light does not arrive all at once but sneaks in as a whisper, as if the universe hesitates before unveiling its secret. Every speck of dust glows, every dewdrop reflects a galaxy. In a distant horizon, time dances to a golden rhythm, rearranging the stars, engraving dreams into the fabric of the nebula.

They used to say that dawn is the child of the night, but I see it as an independent language—one not born from darkness, but from the essence of things, from the primal memory of light before it ever cast a shadow, before eyes could utter its name, before its boundaries were drawn.

Dawn is not just an illumination; it is a testament that time still moves, that tomorrow is not a void but a page awaiting ink, that we, despite everything, still hold the power to begin anew—like pure light emerging from the womb of mystery, declaring to life that radiance can never be defeated.

This is the luminous dawn, where hope sprouts like a newborn planet in a galaxy that knows no extinction.

~Firas Alwaily

Michigan

2/2/2025