The Beacon on the Hill

We did not promise.
We declared.

Not a wish but a reckoning,
not a hope but a hammerstrike
No caveats. No crown.

We lit the hill with that fire,
and the world turned to look.
Not because we were perfect
but because we said it out loud.
And meant to prove it.

We staggered forward, barefoot, bloodied
each step another argument
with ourselves.

We burned witches and raised railroads,
we broke chains and built prisons,
we welcomed millions and turned others away.
Still we stood ablaze,
flickering, flawed,
but visible.

Not for wealth.
Not for war.
But because we tried to make truth
our foundation stone.

And now?
Now they ask if the light’s gone out.
I say it’s buried
under slogans, screens, and silence.

Now the hill is swallowed in smoke,
and the light
doused by hands we thought would shield it.
Half our brethren cheer the wreckage,
chanting freedom
as they tear down its frame.
We stand in the ash,
not unbelieving
but broken by the knowing.