A Poem - "The Sons of Light"

From heavenly rebellions of long ago,

corrupting humanity,

we are now born into sleep,

into dying consciousness.

Dragged into chains,

we call our prison “life”

and our conditioned reflexes “freedom.”

Yet somewhere within the soiled temple of man

there remains a hidden ember,

a fragment not fully claimed by the world,

a breath from an unseen realm,

waiting beneath the machinery of habit.

For the sons of light are not merely believers.

They are generated to be recruited.

Reborn through conscious suffering,

through the unbearable mercy of truth,

through the narrow gate where illusion is burned away

and essence stands naked before God.

And here is the mystery:

A small speck of light can illuminate a dark room,

but even a vast shadow cannot darken a bright one.

So too with the soul.

One awakened man among the sleeping

becomes a living indictment against the age.

One conscious act of sacrifice

outweighs a thousand automated prayers.

One heart inflamed by the Living Christ

pushes back entire territories of inner night.

Darkness possesses no architecture of its own.

It is only the absence of light.

Only the retreat of being.

Only the vacancy left where remembrance of God has died.

But light—light is active.

Creative.

Immersive.

It enters silently and transforms reality from within.

This is why the world fears the sons of light.

Not because they are many,

but because they carry substance.

Because they cannot be fully hypnotised

by the theatre of appetite, distraction and justification.

Because they remember that man was not made to consume the earth,

but to transfigure it,

to glorify it.

“Ye are the light of the world,” said the Christ.

Not the spectators of light.

Not the admirers of light.

But its vessels, its restorers.

And even now,

in an age illuminated by screens

yet drowning in metaphysical darkness,

the ancient call remains:

Awake.

Remember yourself before God.

Stand inwardly upright.

Gather the scattered fragments of your soul.

Become combustible to Heaven.

Let remorse of conscience transfigure you.

For the night appears vast,

but Heaven requires very little

to begin its illumination.

Only a spark.

Only a watchful heart.

Only one son of light

willing to burn.